


The Flat

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, AU-First Meeting, Arguments, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Past Addiction, Sherlock's A Brat, Strangers, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:11:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2329796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two strangers are left a flat under the condition that they must share it in order to keep it. With both our boys so different, will they be able to get along or has Mrs Hudson gone too far this time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where There's A Will

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. Please take a look at our other works. Just a note, though, there's pretty much always going to be smut. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst, but always smut. We can't help it: that's just the way we are.
> 
> We plan to add new work each weekend, so please subscribe. 
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments --they mean so much. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

John had returned from the army with not much to his name. He carried one bag over his shoulder -- his good shoulder -- into a bedsit just out of the city. He was only a month settled in when he received a letter from a lawyer telling him that a distant aunt had passed away and, as he was the only living relative of hers, he had been left a flat in the middle of the city. He couldn't help a small smile -- he had always loved the city and was eager to move into this flat. 

The only condition was that he would have to share the flat with another man -- a close family friend of hers. They could only sell or rent out the rooms if both of them agreed. John hoped whoever this bloke was didn't want to sell the place. He was really looking forward to it. He called the number enclosed to confirm that he would take it, jotting down the details. 

"Mr Holmes is going there this afternoon if you would like to go as well to meet him," the lawyer said. John agreed and went to get ready, leaving a bit early since he was going to have to walk. 

At the Holmes' residence, Sherlock decided he needed a cigarette. However, when he stepped out into the back garden, he saw his brother and turned to go back inside.

"Sherlock," Mycroft called. "Return."

Sherlock paused for a moment and wished with all his heart that his body would not turn itself and go back. But it did. He took one step through the door but no more.

"I've a letter for you," Mycroft said, motioning to the envelope sitting on the table next to where he was sitting.

Sherlock did not move. He willed his body to stay still. But eventually it just couldn't hold out any longer. He walked forward and picked up the sealed envelope. There was no writing on it. He touched the seal -- it was dry. He looked up at his brother who was watching him, and then he opened the letter and read it. He refolded the paper and returned it to the envelope, which he also folded, before sliding it into his pocket.

"Have you already read this?" Sherlock said.

"Of course," Mycroft said, now looking down at his phone. "And your thoughts on its contents?"

Sherlock said nothing.

"You said you wanted to leave our parents' home, you said you were ready, you said you could be trusted," Mycroft said. "This is your opportunity to prove that." He did not take his eyes off the small screen in his hand. "Or to fail."  
  
"I did not know I was even listed in the will, let alone that she was leaving me a flat," Sherlock said to the air.

" _Fifty per cent_ of a flat," Mycroft clarified. He slid his phone into his jacket pocket and looked up. "If you aren't ready, Sherlock, we could offer the other owner your half. If he can afford it -- the flat's worth is impressive, though, and I'll be honest, it's unlikely he'll be able to buy you out."

"Do you think they'll loan me the money to purchase his half?" Sherlock said, lowering his voice and nodding towards the house. He sat down in the chair across from Mycroft.

"Let me see," Mycroft said in a voice that indicated what was to follow would be drenched in sarcasm. "Nine months ago they were summoned to the station to bail you out of jail and then they paid for your stay in rehab. Yes, let's go ask them to write the cheque immediately."  
  
Sherlock scowled. "You said he wouldn't be able to afford it. Do you know him?"  
  
"I know of him," Mycroft said and left it at that.

"So I'm expected to share the flat with him?" Sherlock asked. "Live there with him?"

"That is indeed one option," Mycroft said. "You said you'd leave here as soon as you found a place. You've found one -- or rather one has found you. You're not an idiot, Sherlock, you know the cost of housing in the city. Do you really think it's wise, or even possible, to find a place you can afford, if in fact you already own a flat?"  
  
" _Half_ a flat," Sherlock said.

"Yes, half a flat."  
  
"I could let out my half and use that money to move elsewhere," Sherlock said.

"Alas, I'm afraid not," Mycroft said. "Mrs Hudson, you may remember, was an . . . unusual woman. Neither you nor your new flatmate can rent or sell without both of your signatures." He stood up. "I'm bored with this conversation now," he said, taking his phone out of his pocket and heading inside. "Two o'clock," he added.

"Two o'clock what?" Sherlock asked.

"At two o'clock you're going to the flat," Mycroft said. "Go pack your bag. You can ride with me into the city." He went back into the house.

John made his way to the flat slowly, wondering what his flatmate was going to be like. Halfway there he realised he didn't have a key to get in so he stopped at a cafe and called the lawyer again. He told John that he was going to be meeting the both of them there to make sure they were who they said they were and to document the final decision they would make. Reassured, John had a cup of tea before continuing on again. When he found the right place he loitered outside, taking in the surrounding area. It was right next to a Chinese restaurant with a Tesco within walking distance. There was plenty of noise and bustling on the street, and he reveled in it. He really loved the city.   

The drive in was silent. As the car turned through the London streets, Mycroft said, "I will drop you off as long as you assure me that if you decide to do anything other than move in, you ring me before you sign anything. If you cannot assure me of that, I will come in with you."  
  
"I don't want you there," Sherlock said, scanning the road as the car pulled up to the pavement.

"Assure me then," Mycroft said.

Sherlock stared out the window and softly said, "You're assured."

"Then get out," Mycroft said. "Welcome to your new home," he added as Sherlock stepped out.

He walked up to the door, but it was locked. He knocked, but no one answered. He looked around. Mycroft's car was already gone.

John was coming back up the street when he saw someone knocking at the door. He couldn't tell if that was the lawyer or not -- no, he had a suitcase. So that was his new flatmate. He was very . . . well . . . John reminded himself not to stare as he walked over to him. "Hello," he said, holding out his hand. "I'm John. John Watson."

Just as he said that another car pulled up and another man stepped out, holding a briefcase as he walked over to them. "Gentlemen, I am Sean Powers, the lawyer you spoke with. Let's get inside, shall we?" he smiled, pulling out the key and opening the door. John motioned for Sherlock to go in first, following behind the both of them as they climbed the steps. 

Sherlock eyed his new flatmate. John Watson. He was a little older than Sherlock, but it was not his age that explained his cane. The way he carried his bag though -- whatever inside was extremely valuable. Or at least valuable to him. He was handsome. And short. He held the door for Sherlock -- politeness or shame about the fact that he'd struggle on the stairs?

The lawyer, though, Sherlock thought, seemed dodgy. Of course, Mrs Hudson would hire a lawyer called Powers. He had loved her, but it's true, she was a bit batty. "It was my brother," he said before they entered the upstairs flat. "You spoke to, I mean," he clarified. "I've never spoken to you in my life."

"Oh. Well, I spoke to John," he said, turning to look at John. John nodded, making his way up the steps slowly. When they got to the top Powers opened that door as well, leading the way in. It was a nice looking flat -- the rooms were a nice size, it was already furnished, and there was even an open fire. 

"This looks really good," John said. He looked over at the tall man, wondering what he thought about the place. 

"There are two bedrooms -- one down the hall there and another upstairs," Powers explained. "What are we thinking? Staying? Renting? Selling?"

John looked over again. "I would like to live here," he said, hoping he wasn't going to have to fight for that. 

Sherlock turned to Powers. "Do you mind if we speak privately?" he asked, motioning towards the door.

"Uh, right, fine," Powers said, taking a step out. Sherlock shut the door on his face.

He turned to John. "You haven't found a job since your return -- laziness, incompetency or PTSD?"

John flushed and furrowed his brows. "Sorry?" he said, lifting himself up a bit straighter. "I am not lazy," he said offended. "And I was unaware Powers had told you about me -- I don't know anything about you."

"We've just established that he and I have never spoken. Does this mean you are normally a poor listener?" Sherlock said, scanning John's face which he now classified as wise but worried. PTSD then. "Quickly, I need you to tell me how annoying you intend to be, as a flatmate, I mean," Sherlock asked.

The question was so odd that John simply gaped at him for a moment. "I don't know what sort of things you find annoying so how could I possibly answer that?" he finally asked. "Are you going to insult me the whole time? If so, I will sign right now to sell this place."

"You can't sell it without my signature," Sherlock said.

John opened his mouth and closed it again. "I won't live here with you if you're going to keep acting like that. I'll sell you my half if I have to," he said. He didn't want to do that -- it was such a good place in a perfect location, he'd never otherwise be able to afford something like this. Why did this man have to be so insufferable? 

"Fine," Sherlock said. "You take the bedroom upstairs. We both agree to keep out of each other's way." He opened the door to Powers who was still standing there a bit dumbfounded. "We're staying," Sherlock said. 

John went to protest but decided against it. He could keep out of his way and as long as he did the same they would be fine. Maybe. 

"Great," Powers smiled. He pulled out the appropriate paperwork and spread it on the table. "I just need you both to sign here and here," he pointed, offering his pen. John took it and signed first, passing it to Sherlock.   

Sherlock signed it and held his hand out for the keys. "We'll be getting the locks changed," he said. "Obviously." He took one key off the ring and handed it until John. "Until we do," he said, placing it into his hand. "Do we need you for anything else?" he asked the lawyer. 

"Uh, no," he said, "I guess not." He slipped the papers into his case and handed each of them one of his cards. "They'll be more to sign in a week or so, probably. I'll ring you," he said to John specifically. He looked at him sympathetically for a second and then left.


	2. Adjustments

Sherlock picked up his case and headed towards his bedroom. "Can I take that desk?" he asked. "Also, I presume you'll be needing food at some point. If you go out, I'd be grateful if you'd pick up milk." He slipped his hand in his pocket and placed a two pound coin on the table. "You can keep the change," he added and disappeared into his room, shutting the door.

John pocketed the coin and picked up his bag, glancing at the stairs. He had hoped that the man -- he forgot to look at his first name when he signed it and he had never actually introduced himself -- would have offered him the room on the main floor after watching him struggle up the stairs. His pride stopped him from going to ask for a trade so he shouldered his bag and slowly made his way up to his bedroom. He hung his clothes slowly, walking back and forth with one item at a time. 

When he was finished, he put his wallet in his pocket and went to properly see the rest of the flat. He wondered if they were going to share all of the groceries -- would he need to by two pints of milk? And what about tea and all of those things? He opened the fridge, and it was empty. Sighing, he went to the hall and called down. "Look, I am going to the shop for some proper groceries . . . do you want anything other than milk? How do you want to do this?"

Sherlock came to his door but didn't open it. "How do I want to do what?"

"The shopping," John said, looking up at the door.

Sherlock didn't really understand the question. Surely, this man knew how to do the shopping. And then he realised what was going on. He opened the door.

"Do you need money then? Since you don't work, do you not have enough money for food?" He reached into his pocket to retrieve his wallet. "I'm happy to pay, especially as I don't eat much. Shall that be the arrangement then -- I'll pay as long as you do the shopping?" Sherlock asked before adding, "And the cooking?"

"No!" John sighed. "I have enough money for food. I just wondered are we sharing everything or doing our own shopping or just getting two of everything? And I am not going to be responsible for cooking you dinner," he added.

"I don't eat very much so it seems quite ridiculous for us to buy two of everything," Sherlock said, "and also quite ridiculous that two people should be cooking. But fine. We can share the costs." He handed John some notes. "If you could just get me tea and milk, I would appreciate it."

"I was already going to get that," John said. He realised he was right about the cooking -- if one of them was going to go through the trouble of cooking they might as well make enough for both of them. "Well, I am sure we will figure out some kind of routine." He turned to go.

This all seemed a bit stupid to Sherlock. Part of why he'd wanted to leave his parents' was because Mycroft was always around, making him feel uncomfortable. Why move in here if the same discomfort would still exist? 

"Hey," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry -- let's start again." He held out his hand. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. Do you want me to come with you to the shop?" 

John turned around and looked at him for a moment before taking his hand and shaking it. "Yeah, that would be . . . helpful," he admitted, lifting the cane a bit. He hated asking for help -- hated that he needed the stupid thing -- but trying to carry home all of the bags like this would just be stupid.

Sherlock slipped his coat back on and locked the door behind them as they left. He let John go down the stairs first, but stayed patient as he went slowly. "How did you know Mrs Hudson?" he asked.

"Distant aunt," John said. "I guess I am the only family she had left. How about you?"

"Friend of the family," Sherlock said. "I wonder why she did this -- the sharing bit, I mean. She always was a little . . . unusual."

John shrugged. "I had only met her once at my grandmother's funeral, and I was really young."

"I knew her quite well," Sherlock said, thinking back. "I was quite fond of her actually," he said mainly to himself. He hadn't really had time to think about the fact that she was gone. He came back to the moment, though, and asked, "Do you think you'll be losing the cane soon because I only agreed to this since it was our first day together. In the future, I'd really prefer if you'd do the shopping. In exchange, I'll do . . . " his mind tried to find something else he could do but settled on "something else, but shopping really is of no interest to me whatsoever."

"I can't just lose it, Sherlock, I can barely walk," John said, feeling annoyed again. He could at least have the decency to pretend he didn't notice. "If you want to go back home, I can get a cab."

"I am already along with you, John, it'd be stupid to go back now," Sherlock said. "Are you always such a martyr?"  
  
John rolled his eyes and ignored that. He _hated_ his cane and the fact that he needed it at all, especially since he didn't even have an injury on his leg. But saying all of that would only prove Sherlock's point so he kept quiet and just walked along. 

"I see," Sherlock said. "I don't plan on changing you, John Watson, and I'm under the assumption you don't intend to change me. I just think flatmates should know the worst about each other."

"And that's your worst then? Pointing out my handicap and leaving all of the responsibilities on me?" He knew he was being defensive, but he couldn't help it. His leg always put him in a bad mood.  

"I meant your being a martyr, that's obviously not an attractive quality," Sherlock said, opening the shop door for John. "I can assure you that my worst is much, much worse."

"I am not a martyr," John muttered. "And please enlighten me on what your worst is," he said normally as they moved down the first aisle. 

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asked. "I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end, though I imagine at the moment, you might find that quality rather appealing." He smiled lightly.

"I'm sure the violin will be fine -- I can just shut my bedroom door if I have to. And yes, you not talking for a bit seems rather nice about now," he said. 

"Fine," Sherlock said, watching as John filled their trolley. "We'll leave it at that for now -- I don't want to spoil any surprises I may have for you later. Are you really going to be eating all this or are you planning to hold a dinner party for your twelve closest friends?"

"I don't want to come back every day. I am going to stock up for the week at least."

"Practical," Sherlock commented, though it was a detail he was filing away in the newly created John Watson file, rather than a response to John's actual comment. "I need to get a pack of fags," he said to test the water. 

"You smoke?" John asked, pausing to look at him. "Not in the flat, I hope."

Not surprising really, Sherlock thought. "Why don't you work?" he said, changing the focus back to John.

John patted his leg again. "I get a pension from the army as well. Since there's no rent I am not too worried about it at the moment. Do you work?"

"Well . . . yes, of course," Sherlock said. "I work most days. More recently, I've been helping on criminal cases -- I'm a consulting detective."

"You help the police?" John asked surprised.

"I have," Sherlock said. "When they need help, which is actually more often than you'd expect. You don't have a double life as a criminal, do you?" he asked.

"No, Sherlock, I am not a criminal," he said. "That sounds interesting."

"It is interesting," Sherlock said, "I'm an interesting person, John Watson." He glanced over and smiled a little. "However, I am incredibly bored at the moment." 

"Yes well, I hardly think picking up your favourite tea compares to a crime scene," John said, putting the tea he liked into the trolley and waiting for Sherlock to do the same. 

Sherlock was pleased to see John had chosen the brand of tea he preferred. "You should probably know," he said, "I can be a little . . . disruptive when I am bored." He thought about tipping the trolley over just to see what John would do, but he decided not to.

"How do you mean?" John said, turning to look at him. Then he looked around and leaned closer. "Look . . . don't do anything crazy. You can go home if you like."

"Crazy is a subjective term, John," Sherlock said. "I'm not going to do anything here, though, so you can relax. Do you ever relax or are you always so uptight?"

John rolled his eyes again and didn't answer. He pushed the trolley along and continued tossing things in. He was so difficult to talk to. 

Sherlock walked beside John, every once in a while picking something up and sometimes putting it in next to John's things. "I need soap," he said, "you don't mind if I use soap in the flat, do you?"

"No, Sherlock, I don't. I am just trying to learn more about you. Why are you being so patronising?"

"Because I'm that kind of person, I suppose," Sherlock said, "which you will undoubtedly see as you learn more about me." He didn't really feel bad, and didn't really think he should. He wasn't being that horrible after all.

"Well, let's just stick with the 'stay out of each other's way' plan and see what happens," John said.

Sherlock took out his wallet to pay. "I'll use my card," he said, "and you can give me the cash. Or the other way around. I don't really care." He packed up the food in the bags and loaded as many on his arm as he could.

"I can give you the cash," John said. He pulled out his wallet and handed Sherlock the money, along with the extra Sherlock had given him before. He grabbed what he could in his one hand and followed Sherlock out. 

They walked back to the flat in silence. Sherlock went in first, not waiting for John on the stairs, and set the bags on the table. When John came in, he said, "You strike me as the type who likes things in certain places so I'll leave this to you, all right?" He headed towards his room before turning quickly, "You never said -- can I use the desk?"

"Yeah," John nodded. "I can use my laptop anywhere," he said. When Sherlock went into his room John slowly put all of the groceries away before going up to his room. He opened his laptop and researched Sherlock, finding his website and skimming through it. Then he went onto his own blog and started to write about the strange day. 

Sherlock finished putting away his clothes and then took his toiletries into the bathroom, where he saw the soap, already unwrapped for him, sitting on the soap dish. He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on before walking up and knocking on John's door.

"I'm making tea. How do you take yours?" he asked.

"Just milk please," he said back, a bit surprised that Sherlock was doing something like that.

"Can you come down in a few minutes and get it, please?" Sherlock said. He went back down and poured two cups. He carried his over to his desk and started emptying the rest of his stuff into the drawers.

"I will," John called out. He finished the entry he was writing and shut the lid, making his way back downstairs. He didn't want to stay holed up in his room all day, but this up and down thing was getting painful. They were going to have to metaphorically stay out of each other's way, because he couldn't keep this up all the time. He took his mug and went to the red arm chair in the sitting room, making sure he had what he needed before sinking down comfortably.  

"Could I use your computer for a few minutes?" Sherlock asked. "I've not set mine up yet, and my emails aren't coming through on my phone. I'll be quick and, I promise, I won't do anything but check my email." 

John looked over at him and sighed. "It's -- it's up in my room," he said, glancing at the stairs. Did he want to suffer the walk all over again, twice to bring it down as well, or send Sherlock up to his room where he would see that after a whole day he'd only put half of his things away? 

Sherlock stood up. "I'm happy to go dig around your things if you can't be bothered."

"Wouldn't it be easier to set up your own?" John asked, looking towards his room again.

"Forget it, if it's too much trouble," Sherlock said. "I'm sure if the kidnapper had been in touch, the police would have just rung me." He sat back down. "Think nothing more of it. My bed has sheets on it and there are towels in the bathroom. Do you think they're safe to use?"

"I don't see why not. They are probably just dusty if anything," John said. "If you really need the laptop, it's just sitting on top of the bed," he added. 

Sherlock looked over at John. "No, that's fine," he said. He walked into his bedroom and brought out his own laptop, which he set on his desk but did not open. He moved over to the chair across from where John was sitting.

"Why do you live alone?" he asked.

John looked over at him, tilting his head lightly. "Well, I only just got back from the war a few months ago and I lived in a bedsit. No need for a flatmate," he said. 

"Did you not have someone . . . waiting for you to return?" Sherlock said. He crossed his legs and steepled his fingers. John was a handsome man -- it seemed strange that he'd be totally on his own.

John shook his head. "When girls find you're leaving -- especially if you don't know how long you'll be away -- they don't exactly want anything long term. I wasn't in a relationship with anyone when I left."

Girls, Sherlock noted. Just to be sure, he asked, "And there was no one while you were away?"

John watched him for a moment and decided that he didn't need to know about the extracurriculars they did to ward off loneliness. "Nothing serious," he said vaguely. 

Interesting, Sherlock thought. "Well, I'm a rather private person, John," he said, "I'd prefer if you didn't bring people round all the time." 

"I won't," John promised. Dating was the last thing on his mind at the moment -- at least until he could figure out something to do with this bum leg. "You're not with anyone then? Should I worry about the same thing?" 

"Oh, no, no, no," Sherlock said, "that sort of thing is not a priority for me. Too much of a distraction. I prefer to be on my own."

"Oh. Well, I'm not going to get in your way or anything," John assured him. 

"I know -- that's what we agreed, right?" He sat up awkwardly. "I assumed we hadn't meant every second of the day -- perhaps I assumed wrong. I can go back in my room, if you prefer."

"No," John said quickly. "No. I was saying -- I just meant when you're working or whatever," he explained. 

"What will you do during the days, do you think?" Sherlock asked.

"Read, work on my blog, maybe try and catch up with some friends in the city," he listed, shrugging his shoulders. "I have no trouble keeping busy."

"What blog? Are you a writer? I thought you were in medicine," Sherlock scanned John's face. Had he read him wrong?

"My therapist thinks that writing about what happens to me every day might help me better assimilate to civilian life. Like I said I only just got back a little while ago and it's been . . . difficult." He didn't know why he was telling Sherlock these things. Then again, if he woke up from a nightmare shouting or something at least Sherlock would have some kind of warning. 

"I see," Sherlock said. "Why a blog? Why not a diary?"

"Interaction with the public -- communicating with ordinary people instead of soldiers, relating to them over not getting the laundry done instead of how many bomb-related injuries they have." He shrugged again. "She thinks it will help."

"I see," Sherlock said. "I hope you don't intend to include anything about me on there. As I said, I'm a private person . . ."

"I've mentioned the flat and that I have to share it with someone, but I haven't mentioned your name, no," John assured him. 

"I'd prefer if you didn't," Sherlock said. "Or give me a fake name. Stanley. Your new flatmate can be called Stanley." He stood up and moved to his computer to check his email. "I don't think I'll look at your blog, John. Unless you really want me to, I think I'd rather only find out about whatever you want to explicitly tell me." He presumed John would assume that meant by his words, and Sherlock didn't feel the need to explain all John revealed in other ways.

"Right. As you get -- what did you say? destructive? -- when you're bored, it would be best you didn't look at it." He stood up and made his way into the kitchen. "I'm going to make something for dinner -- just one of these cans of soup." He figured Sherlock could come make his own if he wanted one, or at least ask.

"Disruptive," Sherlock clarified. Though in truth, he could be destructive as well, but John didn't need to know about that. Yet. "Fine," he said, "knock yourself out." He checked his email but didn't have anything of much interest. He Googled John's name and bookmarked his blog, but didn't read it. He stood up and moved over to the sofa, stretching out along the length of it. 

When John finally heated the soup, he realised he'd filled the bowl too much. Carrying it with one hand was going to be impossible, and he just barely refrained from cursing his leg out loud. He moved to get a plate, slowly moving the bowl onto that before slowly taking the whole plate like a tray to the table. He had just sat down when he remembered the spoon. Sighing, he was up again and it simply seemed like too much work for a quick meal.

"Are your meals always so . . . disruptive?" Sherlock asked.

John closed his eyes and shook his head. "No. Sorry," he said quietly, starting to eat slowly. He usually wasn't so forgetful, but he supposed the strangeness of the day had him a bit frazzled. His own flat was better suited for him and until he got this one sorted, things like this would keep happening. 

"Have you even tried not using your cane?"

"I can't walk without it. My leg hurts," John said. This was the last thing he wanted to talk about.

"Does your leg actually hurt?" Sherlock asked.

"Look, I know that it shouldn't. I know that. But it doesn't seem to matter. I feel the pain anyways. The cane makes it tolerable." He knew he sounded annoyed but he didn't know why --few people had ever even asked about his leg. They all just avoided looking at it so they wouldn't feel uncomfortable. It was clear Sherlock didn't have that problem, but he could be rather patronising so maybe that explained John's defensiveness. 

"It's not really a question of should or shouldn't, John," Sherlock said, "I'm just curious about your word choice. There's something interesting about the way you said you 'feel' the pain. Does that mean there actually is pain?"

"It doesn't matter if there is or isn't," John said. "I feel it. I can't just . . . unfeel it."

"Yes, as I said, I heard that part already, but I've asked a different question and I was wondering if I could get an answer," Sherlock asked, "even if you think it doesn't matter, I'd still appreciate it."

"Yes, there is pain," John said, not knowing what else he wanted. Hadn't John said that several times now? More importantly, why would be use the cane and suffer this way if there wasn't pain?

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Why what?"

"Why is there pain in your leg?"

"Because I was wounded and my brain thinks it was in the leg," he said. It sounded so stupid out loud, but the brain was capable of all sorts of things that didn't make sense. Finished with his soup he got up to wash the bowl, leaning his cane beside him while he did. Then he made his way to the sitting room and checked the time. He didn't know if he should sit or simply head up to bed.

"I didn't mean to upset you, John," Sherlock said. "I was just curious." He stood up to make himself another cup of tea. "You can put the telly on, if you want."

John looked at the time again and agreed, moving to the sofa so he could see better. "I didn't mean--" he cut off and sighed. "I just don't like talking about it because I hate it. I hate that it's happening." He turned on the telly and started flipping through the channels, settling on the news for a bit. 

"I'm not sure talking about it is the problem. Perhaps you should stop thinking so much about it," Sherlock said. He brought in two cups of tea and set one down near John. "But what do I know? I'm a stranger and not a doctor," he said, sitting down in his chair.

"I've tried everything. Waking up and simply getting out of bed like I used to made me crumple to the floor. I've been hypnotized. I've taken medicine. I've even tried meditation." John sipped at his tea and shrugged. "I just deal with it now. Thanks for this," he added, raising the glass a bit. 

"I guess that's what I mean," Sherlock said. "Maybe a little less trying. Why not stop dealing with it? Stop feeling the pain you say you feel."

"I can't just stop," John said again. "It's there now. This is my life." He knew that Sherlock was right -- kind of right -- and he only needed to manage the right kind of forgetting. When given the chance on the tube he gave up his seat or remained standing, realising afterwards that he'd forgotten he had a hurt leg.

"Well, if you're going to resort to lying, we can end this conversation now," Sherlock said, taking a sip of tea.

"I'm not lying!" John protested. "I don't know what else to do!"

"Only a stupid person or a liar would say they accept that a pain with no biological cause is just how their life is now. And I don't think you're a stupid person, John. Besides, you do know what to do: stop feeling it." Sherlock looked over at John. "Why isn't the pain in your shoulder, where you were shot?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. It used to be, but it's healed now. I really don't want to talk about this anymore," he added.

"Sorry," Sherlock said, "I was just trying to understand." He took another drink and added, "Perhaps there's an emotional explanation -- the shoulder's where we carry responsibility. You seem like a responsible chap, an injury there wouldn't change that. But our legs are what move us forward -- perhaps you're afraid to move forward." He looked over at John. "I'm just rambling. You choose whatever you want, John, it's your life." He turned his attention to the television. "What are we watching then?" 

"I'm not choosing--" he cut off again and shook his head. He didn't want to talk about it anymore and arguing would only keep this going longer. "I just put the news on," he said instead. John wondered how he knew about the shoulder, but he didn't ask.

Suddenly, a thought popped into Sherlock's head. "Just one more semi-related question, John. Do you take painkillers?"

"Not anymore. They did absolutely for me so I stopped," he said a bit exasperated.

"So there are none in the flat?" Sherlock asked, staring forward at the television.

"Not unless you've brought any," John said.

Sherlock could no longer look at the television. "I think I'll go to bed now," he said. "It's been a strange day." He stood up. "Stay up as long as you want -- I don't think I'll hear the television, but if I do, I'll put on the radio. Good night, flatmate."

John turned to watch him go. What was the point of asking about the painkillers only to leave so abruptly? He shrugged it off and changed the channel, the end half of a movie playing. He decided to stay and watch that before going to bed.

When it finished he turned off the telly and headed upstairs. He was glad Sherlock had gone first. He slowly changed into pajamas and climbed into bed, taking a moment to decide if it was comfortable or not. Then he closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep quickly.

Sherlock settled into bed, but was not sleepy. He tried to read for a bit, but that didn't help. He put the radio on and listened to people talk before that made him want to break the radio so he switched to music. As he listened to the sounds, he imagined the notes on the page. He did this until the page became fuzzy, and then he was asleep.


	3. Getting To Know Each Other (A Little)

Nightmares had John up earlier than he would have liked. He got up and went to the bathroom as quietly as he could, brushing his teeth. Then he headed back up and quietly, slowly put the rest of his things away. When he was finished the sun was coming up so he headed downstairs and started the kettle.

Sherlock heard stirrings in the flat. He listened carefully to John's movements, assuming at first that it was just a trip to the bathroom. But even after he heard the bathroom door re-open, there were no creaks in the floor upstairs. John had not gone back to bed; John was doing something. Sherlock did not know what it was, but he wondered if his cane was in use, despite John's obviously not actually needing it.

The conversation about the cane had been interesting. It was partly to try to get to know John, to understand him, but, as much as Sherlock hated to admit it, his time in rehab had also surely influenced his curiosity. If strangers could accuse Sherlock of using drugs as a crutch, well, then why shouldn't Sherlock at least ask why John needed a literal crutch? 

Still, he hoped he hadn't gone too far. He hadn't meant to hurt John's feelings -- well, in truth, at this point, John's feelings weren't really important. Except that a hurt flatmate might become a troublesome flatmate, and Sherlock wasn't very interested in that. He decided to do his best not to mention the cane or John's leg, even though the whole thing annoyed him a little.

When he heard the kettle go on, he slinked out of bed, slipped on his dressing gown, and emerged from his room.

"Sleep okay?" he asked John.

John looked over at him and nodded. "I slept all right," he said. He hadn't, but he didn't want to keep whining -- Sherlock seemed already annoyed with how much he'd done already at the store. "I'll be making breakfast soon if you want any," he added. 

"Tea's fine," Sherlock said. John obviously hadn't slept well -- it was written all over his face and the way he moved his body -- but he must not want to talk about it, so Sherlock did not ask any more questions. "I've thought of a few more things I need from the shop. I'm going into the hospital so I'll stop and get them on the way back. Text me if you think of anything else you need." He slid his phone across to John. "Here -- add your number."

"Okay -- what are you going to the hospital for?" John couldn't help asking.

"Sometimes I use their lab," Sherlock said, "and morgue. I'll only be gone a couple hours." He finished his tea and went into the bathroom to shower. When he returned, he said to John, "The towels are dusty. I'm not sure I feel any cleaner after drying off. We'll need to sort the laundry." Then he disappeared into his room, reappeared fully dressed, and put on his coat. "Like I said, text me if you need anything. I'll see you later," he said as he left. 

The second Sherlock left John realised he hadn't asked for his number in return. Well, he wouldn't need anything in just a couple hours. He ate his breakfast and then sat on the sofa to watch some telly. When he couldn't find anything good, he went up to his room and found Sherlock's website, reading through it. In all honesty it was boring, but he felt like he should so they could have things to talk about. He didn't know why that was important, but they were living together after all -- they'd have to talk about something. 

Sherlock made his way to the hospital, but Molly wasn't in today and there really wasn't much for him to do. Eventually, he left and stopped at a cafe for a cup of tea, and he looked over the newspaper. By then he was bored again so he decided it was time for the shop. He slipped his phone from his pocket and sent a text.

_John Watson, it's Sherlock. SH_

_Oh. Hello. -JW_

_Hello. I'm going to the shop. Do you need anything? SH_

_No thank you. -JW_

Oddly formal, Sherlock thought. He picked up the things he needed and headed back to the flat. He came inside and went to the kitchen, turning on the kettle before nipping to the bathroom. He put away a few things from his bag, poured his tea and moved into his bedroom, with his mug and the rest of his bags in hand.

John heard Sherlock moving around and honestly felt a small pang of disappointment when he didn't come say hello. Well, that's what staying out of each other's way was, so he supposed that was fine.

Sherlock sat down in his chair, but realised he didn't like its location so he dragged it across the room. He sat back down and opened his laptop. He checked his email -- there was one from Molly, apologising for missing him at the hospital but she had been on a lunch date. Sherlock knew she probably wanted him to ask about it -- ask who at least -- and perhaps appear jealous. But he wasn't jealous. He wasn't interested at all. So he didn't send a reply.

He was bored.

He picked up his phone and flicked through his contact lists to John's name.

_Are you in the flat? SH_

"In my room!" John shouted, getting ready to close the laptop if he had to.

_You don't need to shout. SH_

He stood up and moved out into the sitting room. He flopped down on the sofa and grabbed the remote. He flipped through the channels.

_I'm in the sitting room now. SH_

John almost asked if that was a warning for him to stay out but he held back.

_I thought it was silly to text from the next room. -JW_

"John!" Sherlock called. "My phone is on the table. Can you just tell me what the text says?"

John rolled his eyes. "I said it's stupid to text from the next room!"

Sherlock stood up and walked to John's door. "I don't really care for shouting, John. Do you do a lot of it? Because I don't really care for it one bit." 

"Are you seriously asking me that right now?" John asked, raising his brows.

"Of course," Sherlock said, "we're supposed to be accommodating each other, aren't we? Do you have some kind of need to shout? If so, I'll try to work around that, but if you don't, I'd appreciate it if we could avoid raising our voices."

"No, Sherlock. I merely let you know where I was. I didn't think we'd be having a whole conversation."

"Don't you want to talk? I thought we could talk," Sherlock said. He didn't even know what they could possibly talk about, but he was bored and needed a distraction.

"Yeah, we can. I can come down," John said, moving to get up. He closed the laptop and put it under his arm.

Sherlock walked down and put the kettle on, setting out two cups. He poured them and carried one to John. He sat down and looked over at him. He took a sip of tea.

"I found your website," John said after taking his own sip.

"I haven't looked at yours," Sherlock rushed to say. "I mean, I wasn't lying when I said I wouldn't." He took a drink. "I don't suppose you found anything there very interesting, did you?" He said, fiddling with a loose thread on the arm of the chair.

"I suppose if you have a passion for tobacco ash, it was excellent," John said. "Is that what you use to try to get clients?"

Sherlock hadn't really thought of the website like that. In all honesty, he mainly thought he was doing the world a service -- providing his vast knowledge for them free-of-charge. He wondered if the website could be used to drum up business, though he knew it wouldn't in its current state.

"Not really," he said quietly. "I wouldn't know anything about that, I suppose."

"You could do a blog like mine -- you could write about the cases you've already solved and show people what you can do," John suggested.

"I -- I thought that's what I was doing," Sherlock said quietly.

"Oh, they're -- it's just very dry," John said, feeling bad now. "I mean, the general public is a bit dim, you know? So I think they need it to be tailored to them." 

"Dumbed down, you mean?" Sherlock said, shaking his head. "I don't want to stoop to idiots. And besides, I doubt I could even if I wanted to."

John tried to ignore the idiot part as he said the next part. "I could do it for you -- the writing, I mean."

"But you don't know anything," Sherlock said. "About the cases, I mean. How would you know what to write?"

"I could use your notes and the posts on your website," John said. _Or I could help you with them._ But that thought was dispelled immediately because what help would he be with his leg like this? He was just fantasising about being useful again. "You could tell me about them."

Sherlock looked over at John. "Perhaps," he said. He finished his tea. "How did you spend your day, then? I mean, if you want to tell me."

John looked around the room just then, not sure what Sherlock was going to think about what he did all day. "Mainly just read your website," he admitted. "I was going to watch a movie, but there was nothing good on and then I got curious so I read."

"I see," Sherlock said. "And do you think this will be how you spend most of your days, basically . . . doing nothing?" 

John raised his brows. "I think I have earned a bit of rest," he said. He wasn't about to admit it had been a bit boring. "If it bothers you so much, I suppose I could look for a part time job or something."

"Well, ultimately it's not really about me -- if you're just going to be lounging around all day, I can make myself scarce," Sherlock said. "I suppose I was just wondering . . . it just seems like you'd want more." He shifted a little. "But maybe I'm just butting in again."

"More?" John asked, looking over at him. "I . . ." He bit his lip, wondering how much to say to him. When he wasn't being patronising, he was surprisingly easy to talk to. "I do miss the action, if I'm being honest. It's left me with nightmares and injuries and losses but being able to save people -- the adrenaline -- I miss it."

"And you don't think you can find that . . . anywhere except in the Army?" Sherlock asked.

John shrugged. "I doubt there are many part time jobs that have explosions, gunfire, and battles." 

"You said it was about being able to save people and the adrenaline," Sherlock said. "Surely explosions, gunfire, and battles are optional."

"That's true," John agreed. "I suppose I don't see how I could save people here -- besides medically."

"But that wouldn't be enough for you?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, it's not very . . . exciting," John admitted. "I mean, it's stressful and you have to think fast and work fast, but it's different."

Sherlock smiled softly as he looked over at John. "What is it you want from life, John Watson?"

John looked over at him and considered the question. "To feel important, I suppose. God, that sounds so . . . vain." He chuckled softly and shook his head. "But that is the truth." 

"I suppose my next question may seem obvious but . . . why don't you already feel that way? You're a doctor --surely doctors are important. You've been a soldier -- they're important. You seem kind enough, people have loved you, surely, you've been loved. There must be a reason Mrs Hudson left this flat to you," Sherlock said. "Why don't you already know that you're important?"

"Mrs Hudson didn't leave me the flat. I got the flat because I am her only living relative," John corrected. "And yes, I felt important when I was on the battlefield or in surgery, but it fades. I suppose it's like any other drug . . . I need it," he shrugged. "I know this sounds crazy." 

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock said. "Mrs Hudson adored me -- she could have easily given me the entire flat. There must have been a reason she didn't. There must have been a reason she gave half to you." He looked over at John. "Anyway, I don't think you're crazy, but if what you say you want is true, staying in the flat all day doing nothing is crazy."

"Well, that's only halfway my choice," John said reluctantly, not wanting to get on the topic of his leg again. John had hardly spoken to the woman, but the whole sharing part did make it seem like she was aware of what she was doing. But that didn't mean it had to make any sense.  

Sherlock stood up and took his mug to the kitchen. He came back and sat down at his desk. Then he stood back up and looked around the room. "Do you have anything you'd like to bring in here?" he asked. "It feels a bit . . . dull. Functional, yes, but dull."

John looked around the room before looking at Sherlock again. "Not that I can think of . . . are you about to bring something in?" 

"There are a few things still at my parents' house that I might bring," Sherlock said. "I might go tomorrow -- I've not brought my violin or anything like that." He glanced over. "I wasn't entirely convinced I was staying when I came to the flat yesterday."

"You signed the paper," John pointed out, raising his brows. 

"Obviously -- I meant when I left my parents', I wasn't sure. I had only found out a short time before I came into the city. It seemed stupid to pack everything and lug it here if it turned out I wasn't going to stay."

"Oh. Well, yes, I suppose that makes sense," John said. He had forgotten that normal people didn't only have one duffel bag’s worth of things to their name.

"Is food going to be on offer at some point?" Sherlock said. He had felt a little pang of hunger and realised it'd been a while since he had some proper food.

"We have plenty of things to make dinner with -- unless you want to go out for something," John said, looking towards the kitchen. He didn't want to stay here alone again and hoped if Sherlock did go out they could go together. That wouldn't be so crazy -- flatmates could be friends as well.

"Sorry, I should be clearer. I meant, when are you are making us dinner?" Sherlock said. "I don't get hungry very often, and I feel hungry at the moment. Can you make it now?"

John blinked at him. And just like that the friend idea went right out of the window again. "Um, yeah," he sighed, pushing himself up and making his way into the kitchen. "Just out of curiosity, do you know how to cook?" 

"Some things," Sherlock said. "If you ever need an egg boiled, I'm your man."

"I . . . did your mum cook for you?" John asked with a slight smile as he pulled ingredients out for chicken alfredo.

"I don't know, I suppose," Sherlock said. "Food's just not that interesting to me. It's just fuel, isn't it --" he stopped awkwardly and reached into his pocket for his phone which was obviously vibrating. He looked at it and scowled. "Please don't ring this number anymore," he said into the phone and then slipped it back into his pocket. He turned to look back at John. "What were you saying?"

John looked at the phone curiously and wondered if it would be rude to ask who that had been. "Um, you were saying," he reminded Sherlock. "Something about fuel?"

"Right. That's all food is to me, I'm afraid. So please don't go to a lot of trouble," Sherlock said. "Do you mind if I turn on the television while you do --" he motioned with his hands towards John "-- whatever this is you're doing? "

"You could start the laundry like you mentioned -- wash some fresh sheets and towels for us," John suggested.

Sherlock groaned. "Why didn't you do that earlier when you were sitting around being bored by my website? Couldn't you have been bored by the laundry instead?" He got up and moved to the sofa.

"I'm not the only one who lives here," John reminded him, a bit annoyed with his whining. "I'm your flatmate, not your butler."

"I do appreciate that, John," Sherlock said. "However, I was out at work today while you . . . were not. So doesn't it seem logical that perhaps in between your lounging around eating bon-bons or whatever it is you do all day, you could have at least done something to contribute to the running of this household?" As the words were coming out of his mouth, Sherlock was pretty sure he recognised them from the script of some ridiculous television show he saw once. Regardless -- it was a fair point, he thought. 

"Yeah, I'm not your boyfriend either so you can stop with all that as well," John said. "And you were only gone for a couple hours."

"Interesting," Sherlock said aloud this time.

"What's interesting?" John asked, looking over at Sherlock as he put the chicken in the oven. He started to boil water for the pasta.

"So that's how you see romantic relationships, then?" Sherlock asked. "If you were my boyfriend, then somehow it would have been acceptable for me to have said what I said?"

"Well, any intimate relationship is about give and take. Friendship, romantic, whatever. The more intimate the relationship, the more give and take there is. As your romantic partner, I’d make you dinner and do your laundry if you're at work all day because the work benefits us both. As your friend, I will do these things if you ask nicely or do something for me. As your flatmate I don't really have to do any of it."

John put the noodles into the water and stirred before looking at Sherlock again. "If we wanted to, we really wouldn't even have to see each other, but I'm not going to lie and say that I'm not enjoying your company. Most of the time," he added with a small smile.

"So since you're clearly enjoying cooking for me -- you just said you wouldn't do anything you didn't want to do -- perhaps you might find doing the laundry equally enjoyable. Wouldn't it be wrong of me to deny you that potential enjoyment?" Sherlock asked.

"Very funny," John said. He refused to use his leg as an excuse -- he got along just fine before and he would continue to do so -- but didn't Sherlock feel even a small bit of guilt dumping it all on him? "If you don't want to do it, then don't. I'm not going to force you. I'll do it tomorrow."

"Fine," Sherlock said. "Just so I know -- will these be your main acts of martyrdom today or should I expect more to come?"

John set the spoon down a bit harder than he meant to. He closed his eyes and tried to calm the spoke of anger. In mere minutes Sherlock had once again taken him from considering friendship to considering packing his bags. It was a bit exhausting. He ignored him, checking on the chicken instead.

Sherlock flicked through the channels but found nothing even slightly interesting. He stood up and moved to the table, watching John. "Just so you know," he said, "I do know how to do the washing up."

"Fantastic," John murmured, setting up the strainer in the sink. He was glad the stove was close by. He positioned himself in the middle, leaned against the counter, and dumped the water and noodles. As they cooled he turned off the chicken, taking that out as well. "I trust you can serve yourself as well," he added.

"I can, though, since you're right there . . ."

John piled food into his plate, put a piece of chicken on top, and sat himself at the table, once again ignoring Sherlock. He knew it was childish, but this was really getting out of control. If he was going to stay here maybe he would need to find a job, if only to be away for a while.

Sherlock waited until John was seated and then stood up and put a little food on his plate. "The kitchen is small," he muttered, "I didn't know if there'd be room for both of us moving around." He sat back down at the table. "Thanks for dinner," he said quietly before taking a small bite.

John glanced up and nodded once. "You're welcome," he said quietly, digging into his food and staring at the table awkwardly.


	4. Getting To Know Each Other (A Little Better)

They ate in silence for a while. Well, John ate and Sherlock fiddled with his food, taking a few bites from time to time. Eventually, Sherlock said, "This tastes nice."

John looked up again a bit awkwardly. "I'm glad you like it," he said.

Sherlock ate a few more bites and then stood up. He put his uneaten food into a container which he put into the fridge. "For later," he explained to John who was watching him. He started doing the washing up. He cursed when his phone went again, and he pulled it out of his pocket with a sudsy hand. "Everything is just fine, thank you," he said into the phone before slipping it back into his pocket and going back to the dishes.

"Do you mind if I ask who keeps calling?" John asked, assuming it was the same person as before.

"No," Sherlock said.

"No you don't mind or no you won't tell me?" John asked, mixing his food around.

"No, I don't mind you asking," Sherlock said, putting the kettle back on and turning round to look at John at the table. "It's my brother."

"Oh. Is he checking up on you?" John asked stupidly, knowing that's exactly what had happened -- or at least that's what it sounded like.

"I'm afraid he is, John Watson," Sherlock said. "My brother is an irritant in my life." He poured two cups of tea, even though John hadn't totally finished his meal, and sat down with them at the table.

"Well, older siblings usually are," he said, thinking about how he often harassed Harry about her drinking.

"What makes you think he's older?" Sherlock asked.

John shrugged. "I check up on my younger sister all the time so I assumed," he said. "She never calls me."

"Well, he is older," Sherlock said. "I hope you're not as prickish to her as he is to me." He took a sip of tea. "What's your sister like then? Why do you call her so much?"

"My sister is an alcoholic," he said, mixing his food again. "I call her to make sure she's going to rehab. Most of the time she's not."

Sherlock tensed slightly at the mention of the word 'rehab', but he tried to keep his composure. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said quietly. "So we've both got troubled siblings -- do you think that's why Mrs Hudson brought us together?" 

John looked up at the idea and shrugged. "Maybe. Is it the same kind of troubled?"

"No," Sherlock said, "not exactly. My brother isn't an addict. But drug abuse is about control, they say, and my brother certainly does have control issues."

"Was he upset that you left home?" John asked.

"Everything I choose to do upsets my brother -- not because of what I've done but because I've chosen it," Sherlock explained. "It's extremely unpleasant to deal with him."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Well, maybe being out on your own now will help," John said.

"Perhaps," Sherlock said. He thought about some of the conversations he and John had had so far, and that mostly they had revolved around John. Sherlock hadn't really shared much about himself. That was how he preferred things -- how he'd always preferred to be with others, regardless of who they were, but he also realised that it wasn't quite fair. "I feel like I should probably tell you," Sherlock said softly, looking down at his mug, "that I have had some problems out on my own. They're sorted now -- unlike you, I don't need a literal or metaphorical cane to help me deal with my past trauma -- but perhaps it would be fairer to have told you. So now I have." There, Sherlock thought, that explanation was surely a satisfactory compromise.

John watched him for a moment, playing with his food. "What sort of problems?" he asked carefully.

"Poor decisions," Sherlock said. "But, as I say, that's all been sorted now."  
  
John had a feeling he knew what that meant -- Harry's therapists used that phrase all the time when trying to convince the family to give her another chance. He could tell Sherlock didn't want to talk about it, so he let it go for now. "Well, that's good," he said simply, finishing the bit of food that remained in his plate. He got up and moved to take it to the sink.

Sherlock quickly took the plate from John. "I'm doing the washing up, remember? I'll sort that for you." He washed the plate and then turned to John. "There's not much left -- should I save it or bin it?"

"Save it and I'll have it for lunch tomorrow," he said. He turned for the sitting room before looking back. "Do you want me to write up one of your cases? I'll show you before I post it," he offered. 

"Can we maybe do that another time?" Sherlock said. "I think it's a good idea and I appreciate your offer, but I've gone a bit tired. I think it was the food. It sometimes slows me down. I don't feel like starting something new."

"I meant tomorrow," John said. "Since I'll be home all day."

"Right," Sherlock said. "Actually, I was thinking perhaps in the morning, you'd like to come with me to my parents'. It won't take too long -- I really just want to grab a few things -- and you'd at least have an excuse to get out of the flat. It won't be a social visit -- just in and out really -- and if you don't want to, that's fine. 

John smiled lightly and nodded. "Yeah, I would like that," he said. "You know . . . I know we said we would stay out of each other's way but . . . well, it wouldn't be so bad if we didn't. I mean, we could be friends." He flushed and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. How pathetic was it to be asking for a friend? And Sherlock needed a bit of work. "I'm sorry. I'm going to go now and you can pretend that never happened," he said.  

Sherlock smiled even as he was shaking his head. "John, that's kind of you to say," he said quietly. "Of course, it would be easier for us to share this flat if we weren't at each other's throats all the time," he looked down at his hands, "but I'm not really very good at friendship so perhaps we shouldn't aim that high? Why set ourselves up for failure, I mean. If you misread my invitation, I'm sorry. I would like us to get along, and I suppose I thought getting along meant getting to know each other somewhat. But . . ." He looked up now at John. "But I'm quite a solitary person, as I've said, and friendship . . . well, it means a kind of responsibility for someone else and that's not really my area."

"Okay. That's fine. I can come along tomorrow to help carry stuff if you need me," he said quickly. And stupidly given the state of his leg, but if they weren't going as friends they had to go as something. He moved into the sitting room and made a face at the ceiling -- he was still embarrassed, but he tried to push it away as he sank down on the sofa to find something to watch. 

Sherlock felt like he should say something else, but didn't know what that should be so he finished trying to clean up the kitchen and then walked into the sitting room. "Can I join you or would you prefer I went into my own room?" he asked, without really knowing what his own preference was.

"You can join me," John said. "I am just trying to find something good to watch."

Sherlock moved over to the chair, well, his chair it now seemed, and turned it a bit to face the television. "Whatever you want is fine," he said.

"There's nothing really good on," John said, flipping through slowly. He paused on a talk show where, the majority of the time, women were trying to find out who the fathers of their babies were. "Hey, you knew I had been overseas just by looking at me," he remembered suddenly. "Do you think you can guess who the fathers are?" 

"Possibly, but I hardly think that's the best use of my deduction skills," Sherlock said, although he was already reading the faces of the people on the screen. "The one in the green shirt is definitely not the father of that woman's baby," he said.

John watched the screen and grinned when the guy in the green shirt was proven not to be. He danced and shouted while the audience booed. John looked over at Sherlock. "You're good," he said.  

"To be honest, it was hope more than skill -- I'd hate to think of that guy having reproduced," Sherlock said, turning and smiling at John.

John laughed and looked back at the screen. "It makes me sad that any of these people have reproduced," he said. 

"Yes, this entire thing really is kind of depressing," Sherlock said. "Shall we play a game instead?"

John nodded. "What game?"

"Well, it's not a game with a winner or anything, but -- I'll give you two options and you have to decide which one you prefer. It may be an easy choice or it may be difficult, but you can only choose one, ostensibly forever. For example, I could say 'tea or coffee?' and you'd have to pick the one you like best. Which I presume would be tea. As it would for me as well. What do you think? I'll start and we can take turns." 

"Yeah, that sounds fun," John nodded. And it seemed like a very good way to get to know more about Sherlock.

"All right," Sherlock said. "Work or play?"

"Play," John said. "Pizza or pasta?"

"Hold on," Sherlock said. "The game only works if you tell the truth. I don't believe you'd choose play over work."

"I would," John said. "I already am now. I get a pension from the army so I can occupy my time with hobbies instead of long hours at the office."

"Except you don't, do you?" Sherlock said. "You don't occupy your time with hobbies, you spend your time wishing you were saving people and feeling bad that you're not."

"Well, I have my blog. And I might be writing short stories soon. That's a hobby."

"All right, John, sure," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry I doubted you," he added sarcastically. "What was yours? Pizza or pasta? I hope you're not planning on making all your options food-based. Pasta, I guess."

"You forgot to ask so you miss a turn," John teased. "Texts or phone calls?"

"Texts," Sherlock said. "Baths or showers?"

"Baths. Invisibility or flying?" 

"Invisibility. Men or women?"

"Men -- wait," John changed quickly, looking over at Sherlock. He'd already said it plain as day. What could he say now to cover it up? "How do you mean? Like . . . whichever one I pick, the other one disappears off the planet or something?"

"Well, I don't mean everyone's going to get killed or anything, but yes, the game is you have to pick one over the other forever. Now, of course, what you base your answer on -- in terms of preferring to work with or talk to or . . . sleep with one gender over the other -- that's totally up to you. Do you want to change your answer or not?"

John shook his head, but he didn't say his answer a second time. He wanted to ask Sherlock the same thing, but he felt like that was a cop out so he wracked his brain for something else, thinking back to the cases Sherlock has worked. "Murders or robberies?"

"Definitely murders," Sherlock said. He looked over at John. "And it's men . . . my preference, I mean." He shifted in his chair and then said, "Early morning or late night?"

"Late night -- getting up early was the hardest thing to get used to in the army. Even worse than being shot," John smiled lightly. He pretended the rest of Sherlock's response was just casual news and didn't mention it. But he did file it away. "Night clubs or restaurants?"

"Neither . . . but I know that's not the game," Sherlock said. "Restaurants. Pen or pencil?"

"Freshly sharpened pencil. Typing or handwriting?"

"That's a tough one," Sherlock said, looking up. "Typing, I suppose. Pain or pleasure?"

"Pleasure," John said. "Top or bottom?" The question was out before he knew it, and it took him several seconds to realise what he'd just said. He felt his face burn. "You don't have to answer that. Sorry . . . um . . . books or movies?"

Now that was an interesting turn of events, Sherlock thought. But he wanted to address John's answer before he addressed his question. "Stop lying, John," he said. "If you choose pleasure over pain, you wouldn't be dependent on that cane. You might not like the pain, but for whatever reason, right now, you prefer it."

"I'm not lying! I don't like feeling pain, Sherlock, and I'm tired of trying to explain my leg to you. It just is. I don't know how to snap out of it." John flared with angry and for the moment forgot his embarrassment.

"Fine," Sherlock said. "Top. And books, definitely books."

"You didn't ask again," John said, glad they were moving on but filing away that answer as well. "Chocolate or vanilla ice cream?"

"I hate sweets of any kind. I'll pick whichever you prefer and then you can eat it," Sherlock said. "Yes or no?"

"Is yes or no your question or are you asking me if I agree with your cheating answer?" he teased, smiling over at Sherlock

"Yes or no is my question," Sherlock clarified. "Have a good think and don't tell a lie."

John narrowed his eyes and then pursed his lips as he thought. "Yes. The morgue or the lab?"

Sherlock smiled at John's answer. "I'm glad, John," he said, stretching a bit. "I'm glad you picked yes. I think I'll go to bed now, the food's made me sleepy, I think." He moved to the kitchen to get a glass of water. "Are you all right on your own then?" he asked. 

"Aren't you going to answer mine first?" John asked, turning to look at Sherlock. He was probably going to go to bed as well -- he had a lot to think about.

"Lab," Sherlock called and then disappeared into his room.

John smiled and stood, stretching and rubbing his aching leg before making his way to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth and headed up, stripping down to his pants before climbing into bed.

His mind raced with the little hand they had played and the many things he'd learned about Sherlock. His cheeks burned lightly remembering, and he grinned wondering what else he might have said if he'd been drunk. But his flatmate was no longer a stranger to him -- or at least less of one than he used to be -- and John figured that was a good start.

In his room, Sherlock pulled off his clothes, got into his pajamas and slipped into bed. He thought about Mrs Hudson -- what she was playing at, even from beyond the grave? It was all right, though, being here. So far, John was all right.


	5. Sherlock's Trick

John fell asleep thinking about Sherlock, and he had strange dreams all night. He remembered Sherlock being in them but by the time he woke up he couldn't remember anything else about them. He rubbed his forehead as he stayed in bed for a bit.

When Sherlock awoke in the morning, he reached for his phone. He called home to see if his mother would be in and to ensure that Mycroft wouldn't. Then he sent a text to John.

_Good morning. Shall we leave at ten then? SH_

John turned his head when he heard his phone, bringing it close and reading the message.

_Good morning. Yes, that sounds good. -JW_

Sherlock rolled out of bed and into the bathroom. After showering and brushing his teeth, he moved back to his bedroom to dress. He emerged, essentially ready to go, and put the kettle on while waiting for John.

John got up and dressed quickly, picking his outfit a little more carefully than usual, thinking that he might see Sherlock's whole family. He came down and smiled as he took his mug.

"You look nice," Sherlock said, without thinking too much about having said it. "I'll just check my email, yeah, and then we'll head off." He sat down at his desk with his tea and opened his laptop. "Did you sleep all right?"

"Yeah I did -- um, thanks," he added, sipping on his tea for something to do.

There was nothing of any interest in Sherlock's Inbox. He picked up his phone and rang for a car. He stared out the window for a few minutes and then turned to look at John.

"You sure about bringing the cane?" he asked.

John's face fell a bit and he threw Sherlock a tired look. "Please don't, okay? Just . . . please leave it alone." Why was he so adamant, implying that John could just make a choice? Why couldn't he understand how embarrassed John was already about it? He took his mug to the sink and washed it up.

"Sorry," Sherlock said, "it's just a shame to let it ruin such a nice look." He put his mug down on his desk and stood up, leaning over to look out into the street. "The car's here." He grabbed his phone and moved to put his coat on. "After you," he said to John, waiting for him before stepping out and locking the door. "We need to get that lock changed," he said as John slowly made his way down the stairs. Sherlock was patient behind him.

"Yes," John said, trying to move a bit more quickly on the stairs. Once on the sidewalk he stepped to the side so Sherlock could go first.

Sherlock stepped up to the car and opened the door for John. Then he walked around to the other side and got in. As they pulled off into the street, Sherlock said, "She may try to feed us. If she does, we can politely decline and pick something up on the way home. You strike me as the breakfast type, and I appreciate we've left before you were able to eat something. I can treat you to lunch since you're doing me this favour."

"Is there a reason we're not eating at yours? I don't want to impose, of course, but I personally don't mind either way."

"Oh," Sherlock said. "All right, we can. If she offers, we can." He looked out the window. "And it's not 'mine' -- it's theirs. The flat is 'mine' now, remember?" He swallowed. "Well, ours, I mean."

"Oh I know. I just meant -- that seemed easier to say," John explained.

"Being precise is more important than saying the easiest thing," Sherlock said, still looking out the window.

John glanced over at him but didn't say anything to that. He looked out of the window again for a few minutes. "Thanks for inviting me," he said finally.

"Well . . .," Sherlock said, "you're welcome." The rest of the drive was quiet. The car pulled up in front of Sherlock's parents' house, but before they got out, Sherlock turned to John and said, "My mother's very kind, she'll want us to stay too long. But I'm telling you right now -- if my brother is in there, we are turning around and getting back in this car, no questions asked. I mean it." He gave the driver some money, telling him to wait five minutes before leaving.

"I will go wherever you go," John assured him. He got out and followed him to the house, looking around and admiring everything. Sherlock's family seemed to be very well off.

Sherlock knocked on the door and then pushed it open. "We're here," he said, taking off his coat and hanging on the coat stand near the door. He wanted to go straight to his room to get his things, but he knew it was better to say hello to his mother first. She came walking from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. She slid her arms around him. "Oh Sherlock, you look well," she said, squeezing him tightly.

"I've only been gone two days -- I look exactly the same as I did the last time you saw me," Sherlock said.

His mother pulled a face at him and stepped towards John, holding out her hand to shake his. "And this is . . . the other one, I presume? Owner, I mean," she said.

John smiled wide and shook her hand. "Hello, yes," he nodded. "I am John Watson. You have a lovely home -- I was admiring the flowers outside as we came in. You have quite a variety." He wondered if she kept them up herself or if they had a person for that. Either way everything looked very neat. 

Sherlock glanced at John. He was being quite friendly. Sherlock couldn't decide what he thought about that. "We won't be staying long, just need to pick up a few things," he said, heading towards the stairs.

"Your father will be back in an hour, at least wait for him," she called after him. "Are you taking the mess in the shed?"

Sherlock stopped and turned. "It's not a mess, it's my lab. At some point, I'll dismantle it and take it to the flat. But not today. We've got other things to get today." He motioned to John to follow him up.

"I'll put the kettle on," his mother called, heading back to the kitchen.

John smiled and looked to Sherlock. "Should I wait here while you go up?"

"Come up obviously," Sherlock said, turning and entering his old room.

John smiled softly and followed him to his room. He was trying to take in everything -- trying to learn as much about Sherlock as he could. The room didn't reveal much, however. There were some beakers and test tubes on the desk in the corner and a small fridge on the other side of the bed. There was a note that said 'specimens' on it. He was just about to ask what was in there when they heard a shout from the kitchen. That was followed by a loud crash, and John hurried out of the room downstairs. 

"Oh! I'm sorry I just burned my fingers and I dropped the kettle," she said, looking embarrassed for the fuss but wincing and cradling her hand.

"If you have a first aid kit I can fix that right up for you -- no, don't mind that, we can clean it up. Sherlock?" he called, examining the wound.  

Sherlock rushed after John. He saw him leaning over his mother's hand. "Are you all right, Mother?" he asked.

"I'm fine, it was just daft," she said, wincing slightly as John turned her wrist.

"First aid kit, Sherlock," John demanded.

"I'll get it," Sherlock said, retrieving the kit and handing it to John.

As John took care of his mother, Sherlock bent over and spread a towel over the spilled water. "Such drama," Sherlock said, "no wonder people go mad in this household."  
  
"Sherlock, don't joke," she said in a hushed voice. "Don't say it like that. You know that's not what happened."

Sherlock looked at the floor. Quietly, he said, "I'm sorry. I know that's not what happened." He stood up and made an awkward smile at the pair, before refilling the kettle and turning it back on.

John used the burn cream and soft gauze to dress her hand, smiling when he was done. "Leave that gauze on until tomorrow morning. When you take it off, put a bit more of the cream on it and let it be open. It shouldn't hurt anymore." 

"Thank you," she said, smiling genuinely at John. "I wished we'd had him around when you were younger -- he could have been useful during some of your failed experiments," she said, looking over at Sherlock.

"No experiments are failures," Sherlock said, "as long as one learns from them." He turned to John. "Thanks for that," he said quietly, stepping over to a cupboard to pull out the teapot and mugs.

As John packed away the things he hadn't needed he realised Sherlock had said someone had gone mad, but now he couldn't remember if Sherlock had mentioned a name. Wondering what Sherlock was referring to, he moved to put the kit back in its place. "It was no problem," he said. "I'm glad it wasn't anything too serious." 

Sherlock poured the tea. "Can we trust you down here while this brews? Or do you want John to stay with you?"

"I'm fine," she said, "Go do what you need to do, I'm fine, honestly."  
  
Sherlock turned to John and said, "It's up to you." He went back up to his room.

John noticed a spot of water and cleaned it up quickly, but when he stood Sherlock was already gone so John just stayed in the kitchen. 

"So do you have family in London?" she asked John.

"No, I don't. My mother lives out in the country, and my sister moves around a lot," he said.

"And how are you finding our Sherlock? He's a bit of a handful. Has he been all right to you?" she said, smiling cautiously.

"Yeah," John said carefully, wondering why she'd put it like that. "Yeah, it's been going really well. Our situation is a bit odd, but we're making the best of it," he smiled.

"Well, perhaps Mrs Hudson knew what she was doing -- she was always one to have a plan," she said, getting the milk from the fridge. "But you have Mycroft's number, right? Don't hesitate to call him if you think Sherlock's heading in the wrong direction."

John glanced towards Sherlock's room and lowered his voice a bit. "Wrong direction?" he asked quietly.

"You've spoken to Mycroft, haven't you?" She glanced at John's puzzled look. "Oh, I'm sorry -- I thought you had made arrangements with him. He's Sherlock's brother," she said, moving to a drawer. "Here -- take his card. Just in case . . ."

Upstairs, Sherlock piled some of his books and journals into a bag. Then he wrapped up his skull carefully in some spare sheets and placed it into a box, filling it with other trinkets and clothing. He carried the bag and box downstairs.

John smiled when he saw Sherlock and poured the tea for all of them. He carried all three mugs to the table, pulling out the chair for Sherlock's mother.  

"Why does your face look guilty, Mother? What have you been saying?" Sherlock asked.

"This isn't my guilty face, Sherlock," she said. "This is my I-burned-my-hand face. They're similar, I grant you, but I'm afraid you're in error."  
  
Sherlock took a tip of tea, looking up as his father came in through the back door. "Father," Sherlock said. "This is John Watson. He shares Mrs Hudson's flat with me."  
  
His father leaned over to shake John's hand before pouring himself a cup of tea. "You two staying long?"

"No," Sherlock said, "we're about to leave . . . I've got some work to do."

"Maybe we could come into the City and see the flat? Wouldn't that be a nice idea?" Sherlock's mother said.

John had stuffed the card into his pocket when Sherlock had come into the room. While Sherlock spoke with his parents, John was thinking about everything his mum had said. Just in case what? Why would he ever need to call Sherlock's brother? Then he realised he had done the same thing to Clara. Call me if she gets bad -- that's what he had told her. He glanced at Sherlock again. He wasn't a drinker -- he knew those signs. Drugs? He looked down at his tea and wondered if that was really probable.

"I can't stop you from visiting," Sherlock said. "Just give me a little more time to settle in. Of course, John owns 50% of the flat -- he may not want you on his property," he said, smiling a little at John.

John smiled back and rolled his eyes lightly. "I would be glad to have you," he said.

Sherlock opened his phone, rang for a car and then put his phone back in his pocket. "Mother burnt herself," he said to his father, "John says she has to take the gauze off tomorrow."  
  
"I heard what he said, Sherlock," she said.

"I know -- I'm just trying to keep everyone informed of everything, as I'm supposed to do," he said, "I don't need Mycroft ringing me constantly asking me questions." He decided not to pay attention to the fact that he was merging a few different issues into one.

John sipped at his tea and once again figured this was a conversation just for them. He wished he could wait outside.

"Shush, Sherlock," his mother said. "I'm glad to have met you, John. I hope my son doesn't spoil everything for you." She smiled at John as she reached her not-burnt hand over to Sherlock's and held his. Sherlock squeezed her hand and then stood up. "I'm going outside for a fag. John, join me."

John thanked the both of them before getting up and hurrying after Sherlock. "They seem very nice," he commented.

"They are," Sherlock admitted. He pulled out a cigarette and lit one. "Thanks for coming -- I've only got a bag and a box this time, I think." He took a long inhale. "Should we stop and get lunch before going home?"

"Yes," John smiled, looking around again. "I enjoyed meeting them. Are you craving anything specific?"

"I've just satisfied my craving," Sherlock said, dropping the butt and stepping on it, before picking it up to carry into the bin. "Surely, you know me well enough by now to know that I could not care less about lunch."

"It was your idea so I figured you'd want to pick. In that case let's go somewhere I can get a club sandwich. That's sounds good right now."

Sherlock looked at John as if it were a ridiculous request, but said, "All right, let's get back into the city. We can go to a little pub not far from the flat. We'll have to drop off the stuff first, okay?" He noticed the car pulling up and led John back inside.   
  
After saying their goodbyes, Sherlock picked up the box and motioned to John to get the bag. "And your cane, of course," Sherlock said, "you'll be needing that as well, won't you?" he said, trying -- but failing -- not to look too smug.

John stopped where he stood, blinking at Sherlock before looking at his hand. His empty hand. "Where . . . how . . . ?" He stammered, looking around for it. He didn't understand. "What did you do?"

"You left it upstairs," Sherlock said, moving back into the kitchen to retrieve it. "All I did was bring it down for you," he said handing it to John and then walking out the door.

John watched him go, still in a bit of shock. He took a careful step but it was normal. Nothing hurt. "I don't believe it," he murmured to himself making his way out. He carried the cane instead of using it. He didn't know what to say.

Sherlock pushed the box into the back seat of the car and then took the bag from John, smiling lightly, pushing that in as well. He walked around and got in on the other side. Once John was in, they were off back to the city.

"I don't know how you did this but thank you, Sherlock. Really," John said quietly, rolling the end of his cane in his palm.

"I didn't do anything, John," Sherlock said. "You must have just changed your mind about needing it." He smiled a little and rested his elbow on the box sitting between them.


	6. Their First Fight

When they got back, they carried Sherlock's things up to the flat. "I'll sort them in a bit," he said. "Do you still want to get lunch?" he asked.

"Sure," John said, marveling his cane. He really didn't need it -- just like that. He didn't feel any kind of pain or anything. "Well, now it's definitely my treat," John said to him.

"All right," Sherlock said, heading back down. He went first and John followed quickly behind. He was glad for that. They walked to the pub and led them up to place their order. He just got a bowl of soup. When they'd ordered, he walked to a small booth in the corner.

John followed with his sandwich and two bottles of water, giving one to Sherlock as he sat down. After taking a couple bites, he rubbed his hands on his thighs nervously and looked up at him. "Hey, um . . . when you were upstairs and I was in the kitchen with your mum . . . " He reached into his pocket and pulled out Mycroft's card. "She gave me this and told me 'just in case'," he said quietly. He slid it across the table. "I don't know why -- but I don't want it. I don't want to interfere." 

"I knew her face was guilty," Sherlock said. He slid the card back to John. "Perhaps you should keep it. Just in case."

"Just in case what, Sherlock?" John asked, not taking the card. 

"I don't know . . . you need him for something. In addition to being annoying, he is also quite powerful. He can get almost any problem fixed," Sherlock said, taking a sip of water. "I appreciate your telling me, though, John. Thanks. Put it in your wallet now, yeah? We avoided him at my parents'. We don't need him here now."

John took the card. "I'm not ever going to call your brother, Sherlock. I don't even know him, I'm not going to be asking favours from him, and I am certainly not going to tattle on you," he said. He put his wallet away and went back to eating. 

"Good then," Sherlock said. "I won't give you any reason to tattle anyway. Well, not _that_ reason, I mean. Whatever it is you're thinking. I told you those issues were sorted."

"I know. And I just want to say . . . that it's very brave of you. Because I know it's hard and, well, anyways. That's all," he finished lamely, focusing on his lunch again.

"Oh shut up," Sherlock said sharply. He had wanted this to be a nice lunch, but now it wasn't anymore. "You don't know anything about it. I'm not your sister, you barely know me." He put his water down. "At least when I was harassing you I was harassing _you_ , John Watson. Don't lump me in with others. You might think they're brave, John, but don't call me brave. Don't make out like I'm . . . just don't."

John flinched at his sharp tone and then felt embarrassed for bringing it up. "I'm not going to take it back -- I really do feel that way. I'm sorry if you don't like it." He pushed his plate away and looked up at Sherlock.

"Well, I don't," Sherlock said, though there was a tiny bit of him that appreciated John's holding his ground. He felt no need to let that be known, however. "I'm your flatmate, you know -- not a patient. I don't need any doctoring from you, Doctor Watson."

"Yeah, I got that," he said. He stood up left the restaurant quickly -- a bit childish but he really couldn't sit there any longer without saying something rude. He was glad they were close to the flat and that he could get there so quickly now. That made him feel a pang of guilt for ditching Sherlock but not enough to go back. He went right up to his room and got on the computer. So much for the blossoming friendship.

Sherlock followed John out but let him rush ahead. Whatever made him feel better about being so patronising was fine with Sherlock. Why did everyone think Sherlock needed to be looked after? He was a grown man and, quite frankly, the smartest person he knew. He didn't need anyone's pity. And certainly not John's, who hardly knew him. He didn't need John or Mycroft or anyone to look after him.

In fact, of all the people in his life, including his parents though he knew they meant well and were obliged to treat him that way, the only person who ever made Sherlock feel truly cared for was Mrs Hudson. When he would visit her, she'd fuss over him and he really never minded. In fact, he had kind of liked it, though he hadn't let on. And now she was gone and had left him trapped with this doctor who couldn't fix himself but was happy to try to fix Sherlock.

Well . . . Sherlock thought. That's not quite what had happened. Not really. John wasn't actually trying to do anything other than be supportive, but god, Sherlock hated that concept.

He let himself into the flat, noticing John had shut himself in his room. Sherlock made a cup of tea and took it and his laptop into his room and shut the door. He sat down in his chair but then moved to his bed, abandoning the computer. He got out his phone.

_Sorry. SH_

He sent it to John and then set the phone on the table. He stood back up, closed his curtains, and lay down on the bed. He thought about unpacking his things, but decided to lie there for a bit longer.

John heard Sherlock come in and paused what he was doing, listening to him moving around the kitchen a bit. And then his phone vibrated and it made him jump a bit. He looked at the message and sighed, rubbing his eyes lightly. He had only been trying to be supportive -- maybe if anyone had told Harry she was doing good instead of waiting for her to fail she might have been able to stop.

He got up and quietly made his way to the kitchen, pouring himself some tea before going back up. He twirled his phone as he thought for a moment.

_It's fine. I won't mention it again. -JW_

_Please don't. SH_

After a little while, Sherlock got up and hung up the clothes he had brought back. He went out into the sitting room and placed his skull on the mantel, before he started putting books on the shelves.

John heard him moving around again and thought it would be nice to offer his help, sort of make up for everything that happened at lunch. He came down and was just about to ask when he noticed the skull. "Um . . . that's a skull -- is that real?" he asked instead, looking at it closely. 

"It is," Sherlock said. "Best to leave it be. Don't worry -- it was a gift, not a remnant of a former flatmate." He smiled weakly.

John couldn't help a small smile, looking at the skull again before offering his help.

Sherlock handed some books to John. "I'll try to keep my stuff in this area," he said, moving his hand around his desk. "That way there's space for yours, if you want to add anything." He put some books on the shelf. "It should feel like your home as well."

"Well, I don't have much so don't worry about that," John said. "Do you want me to do anything?" he asked again.

"Get some things if you don't have any," Sherlock said. "What's missing from your life? What do you want? Let's go out now and get it."

"I don't need anything now," John said. "I'm just lightly packed because I was away. I'm sure I'll get more things as I need them."

"All right then," Sherlock said. He sat down at his desk and looked around. "At some point I'll need to move the things from my old lab, but I don't want to think about that now. What are you going to do, watch telly? Shall we do something together or apart since we had that fight and all?"

"I thought we were already passed that," John said, surprised Sherlock brought it up so easily.

"Okay then. Does that mean we're going to do something together?" he asked.

"We can -- you mentioned the telly, do you want to watch a movie or something?"

"No, if you were listening last night, you'd know I don't really care for movies," Sherlock said, smiling a little. "Is there not . . . like an activity we could do or something? I feel like doing something." 

John shrugged, looking around the flat as if the answer was going to pop out of thin air. "Um . . . let's go for a walk," he said. "The park is nearby."

"That's an excellent idea," Sherlock said standing up. "You taking your cane?" he said as he opened the door.

"I'm going to beat you with my cane," John grumbled, smiling softly.

"I seriously doubt that," Sherlock said, "I'm wily. Between the two of us, I will always come out on top." He headed down the stairs and out the door.

As they walked, Sherlock asked, "Would you say you're lonely, John Watson?"

"I don't know. It comes and goes, I suppose. And it depends on how you mean it," John said.

"How do _you_ mean it?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, I was lonely when I first came back and was living alone, but I'm not now because I have a flatmate. You could also say I'm lonely because I don't have many friends or a girlfriend and I hardly see my family, but I'm not too fussed about any of those things so does it still count?" He realised he was rambling so he finally stopped and shrugged in a way of apology. 

"Interesting. I suppose all I was asking is do you _feel_ lonely?" Sherlock said. "It sounds like the answer is no, not at the moment, at least."

"No," John said. "At the moment, I don't feel lonely."

"I'm glad," Sherlock said. "I wouldn't begrudge you making friends or having dates, of course, but if those were to come up, I do hope you'd talk to me about it -- as I said before, I'm quite private and we'd have to renegotiate some things at the flat."

"You really don't have to worry," John said. "I never thought about dating with my cane, and it's not like I'm going to run out and find someone tonight. Should anything come up later on, you will be the first to know."

"Well, I don't mean to imply that you've got to check in with me every time someone takes your fancy," he said. A woman walked by. "Did you fancy her, then?"

"I didn't. And you know what I mean," John said.

"What about her?" Sherlock said, motioning his head towards a woman sitting on a bench. "Or him? Who then?"

"I don't know, Sherlock," John sighed. John looked around at the people near them. "She's all right," he shrugged as a blonde passed by.

"All right, fine, don't get such tetchy," Sherlock said. "I was just trying to find out more about you . . ." He walked on a bit.

"Hold on," John said, catching up to him again. "I didn't mean to be, but I don't know what you want me to say -- why are you so interested in finding me a date in the park anyways?"

"In no way was I trying to find you a date," Sherlock said. "I thought I might learn more about you by finding out what you find attractive in a mate. You can find your own dates, thank you very much."

"Well, let's just forget all of that for now. Why don't we talk about. . . " John trailed off and tried to think of something else. "Tell me about Mrs Hudson. I wish I could have known her better, but I can learn about her now." 

Sherlock stopped at a bench and sat down. "She was very lovely. A little mad, but very lovely. She always treated me respectfully. Even when I was young . . . we had a good bond, I guess you'd say." He smiled a little. "I'll actually really miss her." 

John sat down with him and nodded. "A little mad how?" He smiled softly.   
  
"Well, she had lots of theories -- she was always coming up with theories. About people we knew, about politics, about criminals even. To be honest, I think she kind of inspired me in some ways," Sherlock explained. "Some of her theories turned out to be correct -- but not all of them. For a short time she was convinced the man next door to her was actually Glenn Miller."

John smiled wider. "She sounds like she would have been a lot of fun," he said. "Seems I really missed out. You think this flatshare was one of her theories?"

"Possibly," Sherlock said, "though I've yet to figure out her strategy. It certainly wasn't a random choice."  
  
John hummed as he slipped into his own thoughts, wondering what possible reason she would have to put the two of them together.

Sherlock looked around, watching the people, reading their faces. It was all a bit depressing in some ways -- it was like he always saw people at the worst because he often he read the things they were trying to hide. After a little while, he said, "John, are you glad we met? I mean, I'm not sure we'd have crossed path with Mrs Hudson's intervention. Do you think she's done a good thing, even if we don't know why she did it?"

"Yeah. I always like meeting new people and so far you've been very interesting," he smiled. He was also very frustrating at times but they were suddenly forced together so that was bound to happen. "Are you glad?"

"Well, I don't usually like meeting new people," Sherlock said, "but so far you've been quite interesting yourself. So I think I probably am glad. So far, I mean."

"I'm glad to hear it. How about we start heading back?" John asked, standing and stretching a bit.

"Shall we race?" Sherlock said, standing and looking over at John.

"Seriously?" John grinned, shaking a bit to loosen up. "Sure, I'll race you."

"Fine," Sherlock said, grinning, "I'll have a cup of tea ready for you when you get back." He turned and took off running in the opposite direction from which they had come.

"Wait! You didn't say go!" John shouted, taking off in the way they had come. He pounded into the ground, moving as fast as he could to get back to the flat. He swerved around people, skidded over parked cars, panting as he moved through the streets. 

Sherlock knew the city -- he knew the streets but, more importantly, he knew the places in between the streets, the ways to get where you needed to be without being seen getting there. He was back at the flat first. He bent down and picked up the post, flying up the stairs. He took off his coat, flopped onto the sofa, lifted his feet to the table and pretended to flick through the envelopes. He did his best to catch his breath.

John hit the door with his shoulder before fumbling to open it, looking around the street. He hurried up the stairs and swore when he saw Sherlock on the sofa. "No way," he panted. 

"Oh, hey John," Sherlock said, looking and trying to keep from laughing. He lifted his arms to stretch. "I must have dozed off there while I was waiting for you to get back. Do you mind turning the kettle on?"

"No! You didn't even head towards the flat! You must have cheated," he said. He knew that wasn't true, though. Sherlock simply knew the city better than he did. He leaned against the wall as he took his coat off and hung it up. He also saw Sherlock's chest only just now relaxing. 

Sherlock stood up and moved to the kitchen and filled the kettle. He took out two mugs and waited. "Sorry that I had to shame you like that, John. I hope you'll be able to cope with it." He smiled. "Did we bet on the race? I'm sure we did -- don't you owe me twenty quid now or something?"

"No, we didn't. You said you would have tea made for me -- clearly you had no time while trying to rub it in my face," John said. He moved to the kitchen and leaned against the door. "When I write about this I am going to say we tied -- I missed it by seconds," he smiled.  

"Why would you write about this?" Sherlock said.

"It was fun," John said simply. "I write about the things I do everyday, and this was a fun thing. Why not?"

"I suppose so," Sherlock said. "So you've mentioned me then?"

"Not yet. Like I said, I just made a vague mention to having a roommate. Do you want to see?"

"Sure, but only if you don't mind me looking. It's okay if you want to keep it private -- as I said, I haven't looked on my own."

"I don't mind," he said. He went up to his room for his laptop and sat down on the sofa this time so that Sherlock could sit beside him. "I will write about this race and you can help," he smiled. 

"Hmmm, all right then," Sherlock said, pouring the tea and bringing it over to the sofa. He sat down next to John. "Let's have a look then."  
  
John opened the blog, feeling a bit self conscious now. "So, like I said, it's a bit boring but . . . yeah," he rambled, scrolling through the painfully boring entries. 

"It's got a good look," Sherlock said. "It's appealing to the eye, I mean. Do you get many readers or is it mainly you and your shrink?"

"My sister comments sometimes. And the occasional stranger," he admitted. 

"Interesting," Sherlock said. He looked over. "What are you typing? You've got a stupid smile on your face -- that's worrying."

"I am just describing you with a bit more detail. See?" He turned the screen so that Sherlock could see better. 

_I was worried about moving in with a stranger at first. It was a bit bumpy but I suppose that's to be expected when you suddenly have to share a space with someone. Things are getting better as we learn more about each other. He somehow tricked me into not needing my cane anymore -- I feel no pain in my leg. We broke in this good news by racing home. He thinks that he won because he got here first but it was only by a second so I say it was a tie. Running felt good. I might start doing that again. I'll get him next time._

Sherlock smiled a little as he read, but then he made his face go neutral. "Don't say 'tricked'. First of all, I didn't trick you whatsoever. You're the one who decided you no longer preferred using it. Secondly, I don't want your readers thinking I'm some sort of magician." 

"I'm leaving it because you did trick me. I don't know how you did it, but I blame you. It's not a bad thing. You fixed me," he smiled. He blushed lightly having added that last part, and he went back to the blog, finishing with how there was in fact no tea waiting for him.


	7. Sherlock Makes A Big Mistake

"Do you want to write something about a case? On yours or on mine?" Sherlock asked.

"Sure. We can put it on yours," John said. "I'll put a disclaimer that it's me writing it so you don't lose your scientific credibility," he teased. 

"What do you mean? Aren't you planning on just writing up the facts?" Sherlock asked, noticing that John had already bookmarked Sherlock's website.

"That's what you did," John said. "Dry, remember? We have to catch their interest," he smiled. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The facts should catch people's interest." He took a sip of tea. "How are you planning on doing it?"

"The facts do catch their interest, but they don't realise it. They get bored, so I am going to write it like a story," John said. "Which one do you want to start with?" 

Sherlock listed a few of his case, but then vetoed most of them due to the people involved -- including Mycroft. Finally he settled on a relatively simple but unusual one. He explained it all to John -- the client, the clues, and the resolution. "All right," Sherlock said. "Those are the facts -- make it interesting to idiots, please."

"Don't call them idiots," John said, starting to type up the case. He lay everything out as if it were a novel, explaining in detail how the client came to Sherlock, the little amount they gave him to work with, and everything he did afterwards. Sherlock was incredible, really. Writing it all out this way sort of diminished the magic of it, but at the same time it highlighted how truly amazing he was. He was slow at typing, but finally he got to the end and he turned it for Sherlock to see. "This way they can see that you are the key -- different than everyone else. Listing facts makes it seem like anyone could have found them. They need to see why they should come to you, Sherlock Holmes." 

Sherlock read it over. The facts were in there, but it sounded more exciting, more like an adventure. More like he was a hero almost -- which was strange and a little flattering. His face felt warm and he worried that he was blushing. He handed the laptop back to John. "Maybe you should come with me next time I get a case. Then you can see things for yourself."

"Really?" John asked, and then he blushed lightly because he felt like that might have been over eager. "Yeah, I mean, if I won't get in the way that would be helpful. So, can I post this? I've signed it," he added, pointing. 

"Yeah, go ahead. I honestly don't think it'll make much difference, but why not, since no one reads it anyway," Sherlock said. He looked over at John. "Would you really want to come with me . . . on a case, I mean?"  
  
John posted the story and nodded. "Yes, I would. It really does sound fascinating and, well don't be weirded out, but I'd like to see you in action."

"Why?" Sherlock asked. He looked over at John's face. What was going on in his head? And then Sherlock wondered: what was going in Sherlock's own head?

"Because it's incredible just reading about it -- I think it would be incredible to see you come up with so much from just . . .I don't know, a stain on a napkin or something," he smiled. He met Sherlock's gaze which was fixed on him and had been for a bit now.

Sherlock smiled a little. "It might be dangerous. Do you like dangerous?"

John smiled wider. "I invaded a country. I can handle dangerous."

"True," Sherlock said. "Are you planning on wearing your uniform then?"

"No," John laughed softly. "Unless you plan on taking me undercover or something." 

"It's hard to say where we'll end up," Sherlock said. He took a minute to imagine John in uniform. "We'll see what case comes up next." He shifted a little on the sofa, bringing one leg up underneath him. "So . . . what are we going to do now?"

John looked at the computer and refreshed the screen. There was something about the way Sherlock was looking at him that made him feel just a bit too warm. What was happening here? "Look, you have three comments already," he said, turning the computer so he could see.

"What do they say?" Sherlock said, scooting closer to look. "This is crazy -- I don't know if my blog's ever had a comment before."

_This is amazing -- how do you jump from a small juice stain to murder?_

_I'm emailing you right now -- the guy I hired a month ago to watch my wife has been following the wrong woman. You're the real deal._

_Is this how you solve all your cases? When will they be typed up? I'm bookmarking so I don't miss the next one!_

"See? You have to appeal to the masses," John smiled. Their thighs were touching now and John could feel a warmth -- more than half of his focus was fixed there.

"How bizarre," Sherlock said, honestly surprised. "I can't believe it really." They were sitting so closely -- Sherlock could smell John's hair, it smelled clean. Nice. Sherlock's skin felt warm. "Thanks for doing that for me."

"Sure," John said. "Now, when I start coming on cases with you I'm going to put then on my blog. Don't be jealous if I get more hits than you," he teased, looking up at him. Oh. They were even closer than he realised. He cleared his throat and looked at the screen again, scrolling between the three comments.

"John . . ." Sherlock said quietly. He moved his hand to his own thigh, letting the fingertips touch John's.

Heat seemed to explode from the spot Sherlock was touching, despite it being such a small touch. It took all of his self control to look up slowly, composed. "Hmm?" His eyes found Sherlock's and he held the gaze, not even blinking.

"Let's go into my bedroom," Sherlock said, sliding his hand to John's leg.

John covered Sherlock's hand for a moment. They hardly knew each other and more over, they would have to live together after this and what if it didn't go well? _Then again, what if it's fantastic?_ John looked down at their hands and gently moved Sherlock's hand back to his own leg. "M'sorry . . . I don't think that's a good idea," he said softly, knowing it would be the safest option.

Sherlock stood up too quickly and awkwardly. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I thought . . . but I see . . . I misread," he could hear his voice coming out of his mouth but it was like he had no control over it. "I just made a mistake," he said a little more clearly. He moved to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

He sat down in the chair. What on earth had made him do that? What had been thinking? He searched around his head for some reason -- something to make him understand why he had just invited his new flatmate into his bed. He couldn't find a reason he understood so he gave up and instead looked for someone to blame. He found that: Mrs Hudson. He cursed her for causing this, for confusing him even from beyond the grave. He stood up and pulled the curtains closed before crumpling back into his chair.

In his head John was telling Sherlock to wait, grabbing his arm, stopping him from leaving. But in reality he simply sat there, breathing too quickly as he wracked his brain -- had Sherlock been flirting this whole time? Everything John had taken as them finally becoming friends -- was all that flirting? Of course, how was he so blind? John shut the computer and covered his face, rubbing his hands over it hard. He looked towards Sherlock's room and bit his lip.

He walked to the door slowly and knocked. "Sherlock? I'm sorry if I was acting . . . if I misled you," he said quietly. He wanted to say he'd forget about it, but that was a lie. Hell, apologising for leading him on was a lie -- John didn't even know why he'd said no.

_It's not sensible! You just met for crying out loud!_ John reminded himself. True, he couldn't ignore that but at the same time, he wasn't exactly a stranger. They were living together. The voice on his head raised its eyebrows now. _Semantics_. He sighed and tugged his forehead. "I'm sorry," he said again before going up to his own room. 

Sherlock turned in his chair when he heard John's voice. But he didn't say anything back. Instead, he waited until he heard John's bedroom door shut and got his coat and left.

The first thing he did when he got on the street was to light a cigarette. He took a slow, long drag. Ridiculous -- a grown man having to go outside because his precious flatmate didn't like smoking? Of course, Sherlock knew that wasn't the real reason he'd come out. Of course, he knew that. But that was an easier, more concrete thing to be upset by. He kept walking although he had no destination in mind.

John lay down in his bed, covering his face again. He tried to rationalise the desire to have gone into Sherlock's room, his wanting to say yes. Sherlock was handsome, but for the life of him John had nothing else to go on. He fixed John's leg. _After accusing you of faking_. He took John to meet his parents. _To help him move things_. John opened his eyes in exasperation and wished he could smother that voice. 

Sherlock kept walking and tried to stop thinking. He could not stop thinking. Though . . . he did know something that would help in that department . . .

No, Sherlock thought, he would not give Mycroft the pleasure of a relapse. He turned when he realised he was heading towards his own haunts. He would not give Mycroft that pleasure.

Instead he stopped into an off-license and bought a bottle of vodka. It wasn't the same. It wasn't as easy, it wasn't as effective -- it wasn't the same so there was no need to feel guilty.

He wasn't ready to go back to the flat so he walked towards the hospital. He stopped in at the morgue. Molly was there. He slipped the bottle into his pocket.

"I've got something for you," she said excitedly.

Sherlock didn't say anything back but tried to raise his eyebrows at least.

"It's in the cooler -- something you asked for a while ago. It wasn't easy but I got it for you. Except, of course, if anyone asks -- then it's nothing to do with me, right?"  
  
Sherlock smiled. He knew precisely what she was talking about. "Thank you, Molly," he said genuinely.

She flushed. "It's . . . nothing. You okay? What are you doing here? Did you want to go . . . get dinner or something?" She lifted a hand to her hair.

"No," Sherlock said, more abruptly than he had intended to. "I've got some work to do . . . in the lab. Thanks again, though." He picked up the cooler and walked out, stopping at a vending machine to get some orange juice. He walked up to the lab and entered, without turning on the lights. He locked the door. He moved over towards the window, grabbing a mug from the counter. He filled it halfway with orange juice and the rest with the vodka. He drank it down much too quickly.

John got up to make himself a cup of tea. As the kettle boiled be went to knock on Sherlock's door again. If he continued acting normally maybe they could move past this whole awkward situation. "Sherlock? I'm making some tea, do you want some?" He waited for an answer but didn't hear anything -- not even the smallest movement. Against his better judgment he opened the door. Sherlock was gone.

He went back to the kitchen and chewed on his lip, wondering where he could be. Had he moved out secretly? No, his things were here. Suddenly he remembered the card in his wallet and his eyes widened. Would Sherlock be upset enough to fall into bad habits again? This was the kind of thing that would push Harry for sure, but Sherlock didn't seem like that. _You hardly know him well enough to know that answer_ , the voice in John's head told him.

Sherlock poured another mug full and drank it equally as fast. He was still thinking. He poured a third but ran out of orange juice. He gulped it. He looked out the window. He saw people on the street but then they turned into blurs. Yes, that's the feeling . . . he looked at the window and that feeling took over his brain and he was finally no longer thinking.

The time it took for the kettle to boil seemed forever. John pulled out his phone and had typed the brother's number when he paused, closing out of the call menu. He opened his texts instead.

_I know you probably want to be alone but can you let me know you're okay? If I don't hear from you, I'll have to call your brother. -JW_

John knew it was extreme but he didn't want to be the cause of something like that. He'd never forgive himself if something happened to Sherlock. He turned off the kettle, too nervous for his tea now. He paced in the sitting room, waiting, checking his phone every minute. "Come on, Sherlock," he said aloud.

_I'm serious. Call me or I am calling Mycroft. -JW_

He'd wait ten more minutes and then he would call Mycroft. His stomach was twisting with worry.


	8. John Makes A Big Mistake

Sherlock opened his eyes, not remembering having closed them. He was pressed up against the lab's window. It was dark outside now -- almost pitch dark in the lab. He took another long swig from the bottle and slipped it into his pocket. Bed . . . he needed to be in his bed. He picked up the cooler and began walking home.

John swore and pulled out Mycroft's card again, dialing the number. He hesitated calling, willing his phone to vibrate but nothing happened. He pressed call and swore again as the phone rang.

"Dr Watson, how are you?"

"How do you -- never mind," John shook his head. "I think Sherlock is in trouble."

"Trouble? He seeks out trouble, doctor. Has he not told you of his profession?"

"No, I mean a different kind of trouble. He got upset and left, and I can't get a hold of him." John closed his eyes and hated getting in the middle but if Sherlock was hurt . . . Lost in his own thoughts he hadn't even realised that Mycroft had hung up. Had he understood? Was he doing something? John tried to call back but no one answered. He swore and threw the phone at the sofa. Then he went to get it right away in case Sherlock called.

Sherlock knew he was stumbling slightly, but did his best. His phone rang. It was Mycroft. Sherlock tried to use his normal voice.

"What?" he said into the phone.

"Where are you?"

"London," Sherlock said. Did his voice sound normal? He couldn't tell if his voice sounded normal.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I didn't think you were ready. You weren't ready, Sherlock. I'm tracking you -- I'll be there momentarily."  
  
"No!" Sherlock shouted in a voice that definitely was not normal. "I didn't -- I didn't. I'm fine, just . . . annoyed. I'm headed home, I'm practically home. Just . . . let me go home."

Mycroft didn't say anything. He glanced at the computer screen. "Go home. Nowhere else. I'll see you in the morning."

"Wait --" Sherlock said, "how did you --?" But Mycroft had hung up. Sherlock saw the texts from John. Oh god, this was ridiculous now. Sherlock slipped the bottle from his pocket and took one more slug, not even caring who was watching. Even if it was Mycroft.

Of course, Mycroft was watching. He'd continue watching until Sherlock returned to Baker Street.

John continued to pace the sitting room. This was stupid -- Sherlock had no reason to give him a report of what he was doing. But after what happened, they weren't just flatmates. Not even just friends. There was something more and Sherlock had seen it first and John wanted to see it, too. Where was he? This waiting was ridiculous.

Sherlock thought about turning around, trying to lose Mycroft's watchful eye. He thought about John and not wanting to deal with that. He stopped for a moment. But the thought of his bed was too enticing. He kept walking home.

John wondered if he should call Mycroft again but decided against it. He also wondered how Mycroft knew his name but in all honesty it made sense. With whatever he's had to go through with Sherlock, John doubted he'd let Sherlock move in with a complete stranger without first finding out about him. John wished he had the means of finding out about Harry's friends, not that it would matter seeing as he could hardly keep track of Harry. He hated lumping them together, but he couldn't help it.

Sherlock made his way awkwardly up the stairs. He opened the door to John standing before him.

"Thank you, John," he said. "Thank so much for that. I really appreciate your fucking concern." He hadn't really been expecting that to come out of his mouth, but it had.

John moved towards him but stopped when Sherlock spoke, almost flinching at his words. And the smell. It was like Harry had walked in with him. "I was worried about you -- I didn't know what else to do," he said, refusing to apologise. "You've been drinking."

"Excellent deduction, John Watson! Will you write the case up on the blog now that you've solved it?" Sherlock left the cooler by the door, tried and then eventually managed to hang up his coat and then realised he wasn't quite sure what to do next. He didn't want to have this fight, but he was so angry that John had involved Mycroft. Actually, he didn't even feel like being awake, but he was afraid if he stomped off to his bedroom, John would follow and somehow it'd be worse fighting in his bedroom -- the room that had caused the problem in the first place. The only decision he could actually come to was that he needed to not be standing up anymore. He sat down in his chair.

"The first time I leave the flat on my own, you call my brother -- the one person I have made very clear on numerous occasions makes my life a fucking misery. And you call him," Sherlock finally said, not really looking up at John but instead looking kind of at the wall across the room.

"Then you should have texted me back and told me you were fine! Which you're clearly not," John added angrily. "Is _this_ how it's going to be now? You get upset so you go out and get wasted? Does it make you feel numb, Sherlock? Now you can't feel anything?" he asked, using Harry's excuses.

Sherlock looked straight at John. "That's _precisely_ what it makes me feel, John, and _precisely_ what I want to feel."

"Right. Fantastic," John said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry that I've only known you for two days and I didn't want to jump into bed with you. Did you think that maybe if you talked to me -- or offered to take it more slowly, it could have worked out?" 

Sherlock looked at the sofa where it had happened and said, "The thing is . . . I felt sorry for you, John. I thought it might boost your confidence a bit. I wasn't planning on anything 'working out' -- that's all it was."

Of course, this hadn't been why Sherlock had done it. He knew that. But trying to figure out why was the exact reason he had bought the vodka which had to led to all the rest of the trouble. Then he added, "Of course, I see now my worry about your confidence was misjudged. You clearly have enough confidence to do the one thing that you knew would hurt me most. I'd say that's _very_ confident." He stood up, a bit awkwardly, but tried to maintain his dignity as much as he could. "I think this conversation is over now. Good night." He took a few shaky steps towards his room.

John blinked a few times, trying to ignore the awful, heavy feeling constricting his chest. It was suddenly hard to breathe. "Well, you don't have to worry about that because I'll be leaving in the morning. I'll send the money for my half of the flat and then if you could lose my number that would be great," he said. He turned and went upstairs, ignoring the urge to see if Sherlock would make it to his room okay.

Sherlock stood for a few moments. Everything about this night had gone wrong. Every single thing. 

Eventually he made a move. He had the sense to deal with Molly's gift, though -- somewhat unceremoniously tossing it into the fridge. He looked at the man's face for a moment: he looked like he didn't have a care in the world. Of course, he didn't. He was dead.

Sherlock shut the fridge and poured himself a glass of water. He went into his room and sat down on his bed. Sherlock was sorry for what he had said. Sorry for what he had done. But John wouldn't leave. Not over this. He wouldn't, would he? Sherlock lay down on his bed and immediately, he slept.


	9. Sherlock's Explanation

John had the worst sleep be could remember. It took him a long time to fall asleep, and then he couldn't stay asleep. When he saw the sun starting to come up, he got out of bed and went into the bathroom. He didn't want to leave but after last night, he doubted that he could stay. He started the kettle and leaned on the counter, rubbing his forehead.

If Sherlock woke up and was feeling better, maybe they could work this out. He opened the fridge for the milk and shouted, shutting it quickly. Taking a deep breath, he opened it again and peeked in. A head. There was a head in the refrigerator.

He couldn't stay here. This was madness -- was that a warning to John?  Was that for making Sherlock angry? He took his tea up to his room and started to pack.

Sherlock's brain was dead to the world -- there was nothing going on inside. It was exactly what he had wanted. He slept on.

John looked around the room sadly -- he had liked this place, had liked staying here, but now that was all ruined. He headed down and, for a moment, thought about telling Sherlock. No, but he would leave a note. He jotted down a quick "Have a good life," put it over that head in the fridge and then he left. 

He went to a nearby hotel until he could get things figured out. First he would need a job. And then he could find another flat.

Eventually, Sherlock's bladder demanded attention, and he rolled his body over and sat up. His head hurt. He stood up. His head really hurt. He stumbled to the bathroom and went, then splashed some cool water on his face. He looked in the mirror. He felt horrible. He knew he'd done and said bad things last night, which only made him feel more horrible. He'd have to sort this out now: apologise to John and hopefully they could move on.

He moved into the kitchen and made two cups of tea. He moved to get the milk and saw the note on the head in the fridge.

This wasn't what Sherlock wanted. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. A reasonable person would sit down and have a think about how to properly remedy the situation. But Sherlock Holmes was not always a reasonable person.

_That's it then? You just give up like a coward? Very disappointing. SH_

He sent it without thinking. Because Sherlock was not very good at thinking when it had to do with sentiment. Therefore, he realised, this must have to do with sentiment. He honestly considered finishing the bottle in his coat pocket, but didn't. Instead he took his tea to his chair, sat down and closed his eyes. Everything that had happened since he and John were on the sofa together last night replayed in his mind. He opened his eyes and picked up his phone.

_Come home, John. SH  
_

John had just finished typing up his resume and emailing it to the local hospital, as well as Bart's where he'd studied. He couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock, half of him wanting to shout at him and the other half hoping he was feeling okay after his binge.

And then his phone sounded. John's anger flared at the message and he was about to respond when the next one came through. His anger fell away immediately, but Sherlock wouldn't get off that easy.

_Why? So you can lop my head off, too? Nice threat, by the way. Very clever. JW_

Sherlock looked at the message. He didn't remember threatening John last night. He remembered inviting him to bed, stomping off, drinking, being angry about Mycroft and then being mean. None of those things were very pleasant memories -- but if he remembered those, why couldn't he remember the threat?

And then he thought about John's note. On the head. He smiled a little at the misunderstanding, though the whole thing was hardly a smiling matter.

_I forgive you. I want you to forgive me. Come home. SH_

_No. I was worried about you and you were horrible. I don't need your pity. -JW_

John remembered Sherlock's words again -- _I felt sorry for you_ \-- and he shook his head. Something good could have happened if they had just talked first.

_I owe you an explanation. Come home and get it. SH_

John sighed and looked at his bag, still unpacked beside the bed. He'd already got the room for the night, but how would it look if he left his bag here? In fact, that's what he was going to do because he had no idea what would happen at the flat.

_I'll give you 30 minutes. -JW_

John threw on his coat, locked the room, and tried to get himself ready for anything Sherlock might have to say. When he arrived he stared at his key for a moment, remembering that he should leave it behind, before heading up to their flat.

Sherlock had jumped up and rushed into the shower. God, his head hurt. He got dressed and put the kettle back on. He brought the milk out and set it on the counter. He felt a bit sick but wasn't sure if it was the hangover or nerves. He sat down on the chair. He heard the door downstairs. He stood up nervously, but sat back down before John came in.

"It's an experiment," he blurted out the minute he saw John's face.

John's brows furrowed lightly. "What? Asking me to come back?"

"The head," Sherlock said, moving to the kitchen and returning with the two mugs. He set them on the table. "Will you sit down on the sofa, please?" he asked.

Sherlock moved over to the desk and got the laptop. He sat down on the sofa next to John and opened the laptop. His website came up as the homepage. He turned it a little towards John. He looked at the screen. "There are a few more comments," he said softly.

John hung his jacket and reluctantly did as Sherlock asked. When he spoke again, showing John the comments, John kept looking at Sherlock. He could have looked at these on his own -- is that why he was here? He didn't say it though. He leaned closer and looked at the comments left.

"Let's go back to before," Sherlock whispered. He swallowed hard and then said, "What do the comments say?" He scooted closer to look. "This is crazy -- I don't know if my blog's ever had a comment before." 

John looked over at him again and felt a bit sad. Despite everything that has happened, he couldn't help playing along. "Two more people are sending you cases. And this one says they envy your skill," he said gently.

Sherlock's body relaxed just a little. "How bizarre," Sherlock said in a surprised voice. "I can't believe it really." He moved a little closer and felt warm again. "Thanks for doing that for me."

He was silent for just a moment and then rested his hand on his own leg, his fingertips reaching over to John's leg. "John," he said softly, "I know we've not known each other very long, but there's something . . . I find you interesting. You have also genuinely annoyed and infuriated me -- even so . . . I find you interesting."

Heat burst from where Sherlock's fingers touched him, just like before. He stared at them as he spoke instead of looking up at Sherlock. "I found you interesting as well and . . . well . . . I wanted what you asked of me. But I hardly know you and I didn't think we should," he murmured.

"And you were probably right. There's a reason I'm a solitary person. I am not very thoughtful or kind or good at being around other people. I'm sorry," he said, moving his hand away. "I should have just focused on being a good flatmate before I complicated everything."

John reached over and took his hand -- he couldn't help it. "It was nothing against you, Sherlock. It was just . . . soon. And sure, people have sex after one night all the time, but we are living together and if it went badly, how could we have continued? More importantly I think -- I know -- that I want more than just sex," he admitted.

"I -- I don't know why I said what I did last night, John," Sherlock said honestly. "It's not like me -- except that it was awkward, which I suppose is rather like me." His head dropped a bit. "It's just that I felt . . . something and acted on that impulse." He swallowed. "I . . . still feel it, John, but you're right about our being flatmates and all . . . and I don't want things to go wrong because I can't have you calling Mycroft again."

John flushed lightly and looked down. "I was worried, Sherlock. I didn't know how easily triggered you would be and I didn't want anything bad to happen to you."

"I know, John, but I'm not your sister -- I could have just gone out for a case. I mean, I know I didn't, but I could have. I know you don't know what's gone on in my past nor what power he has in my life or yours, but you have to believe me when I say don't call Mycroft unless you see a pipe in my hand, all right?"

John nodded. "I'm sorry," he said, looking up at Sherlock again. "But you could have answered my texts," he added, nudging his arm lightly.

"Well, I couldn't -- not at that point. Perhaps I should have . . . but I didn't," Sherlock said. "I won't do that again." He sat there for a few minutes. "Can the head stay?" he asked.

John laughed at the silliness of that given the serious conversation they were having. "Yes, the head can stay but maybe cover it up or something," he said.

"Don't blame me for that, blame M -- " he caught himself. "All right. I'll sort it." He sat back against the sofa. "What now, John Watson? Are you coming home then?" 

John nodded. "I'll have to go back to the hotel and get my things -- I didn't know what would happen when I came," he admitted.

"Have you already paid for the room?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded. "I don't think they'll only let me pay for the few hours I was there."

"Well, I'll walk with you, yeah? Some fresh air would probably do me good," he said, lifting a hand to his head quickly.

"Yeah, all right," he said before standing. "Want to go now?" 

"Yeah," Sherlock said, finishing his tea. "Let's go." He stood up and grabbed his coat. He followed John to the door. "Thanks for coming back," he said softly.

John looked over at him with a softened expression, leaning up to kiss his cheek. He immediately moved to get his coat, leading the way down the stairs and waiting for him on the pavement.


	10. Robbers On The Run

When they got to the hotel, Sherlock looked suspiciously at John. "I have a feeling most of this hotel's business is, in fact, by the hour, John, if you know what I mean. Why did you choose such a seedy place?" 

"It was close and I didn't have anywhere else to go," he admitted. "I gave my room up at my old place." 

Sherlock walked up to the room with John, waiting as he unlocked the door. He stepped in -- it was dull and quite dingy. "John, I hate the idea that you would have rather been here than with me -- I mean, in a great flat that you actually own." He sat down on the bed and bounced a little. 

"I wouldn't have rather been here. It was just for a bit anyways until I could set up something else -- I thought you were going to cut my head off!"

"Hmmm . . . it's a shame you didn't have a little more faith in me," Sherlock said. He rolled back and put his feet up on the bed. "I know I'm obnoxious sometimes, but did I really give them impression that I'd actually harm you?"

"There was a severed head in the refrigerator, Sherlock. And after the things we said -- I don't know. Maybe I should have had more faith. I just didn't see how it could be fixed," he shrugged. He sat down at the end of the bed, looking around the small room. 

Sherlock lifted the television remote and flicked through the channels. "Well, I'm not normally a violent person, John. Keep that in mind for future, please," he said. He stopped on the news. "Are there any snacks around or anything?"

John shook his head. "I didn't bring anything to eat -- I was really upset and not really thinking about that," he admitted. "Do you want something? I think there is a vending machine at the end of the hall."

Sherlock turned on his side and looked over at John. "I've got an idea -- let's pretend we're on the run and we're holed up in this hotel until we know we're safe. What do you think?" He was grinning like a five-year-old who'd been given the keys to the sweet shop.

John grinned. "Okay. Are we criminals? What did we do? Or are we being chased for information by criminals?"

"Good question -- we could be bank robbers who just made a big hit or we just stumbled across a treasure and the baddies want to get to us because we go to the cops. Which do you prefer?" Sherlock smiled as he spoke. This was more fun than fighting.

"Let's be bank robbers," John grinned. John moved the bed sheets to make a lump in the middle. "This can be the pile of money, hidden under here." 

"All right," Sherlock said, pulling his legs up underneath him. "Maybe I fell during our escape -- that could explain my headache." He stood up and walked to the window, looked out and then pulled the curtains shut. He really had no idea why he started this game -- it was childish for sure, but he wasn't ready to stop it yet. He sat back down on the bed. "So what are we going to do now? We've got a ton of money and twenty four hours before we can leave town. How are we going to spend one or both of those things?"

"We're not going to spend the money now because we want to use it when we get away -- you know, to buy a house and pay for servants. But as for the time, well, I know a good way to spend that. And help with some of this adrenaline we've built up from the high of pulling off such a huge heist . . ." 

"All right then," Sherlock said, "What is it? Don't forget about my injury though."

"Oh yes," John nodded, stepping closer. "Well, I was going to have you right over all this money, but as you're injured, maybe just a light kiss." He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

Sherlock pulled his head back just a little. "John," he said in a surprised voice. Was this just because of the game they were playing? Was that okay with John or with him? He wasn't sure, but he decided he didn't care at the moment. He wiggled down a bit on the bed. "Do you think I have a concussion? We can't go to the hospital -- you'll have to treat me here." He lifted his hand to his head and waited for John's next move.

"The only cure for a concussion is time -- and not letting you fall asleep," John added. He moved closer again but he didn't kiss Sherlock again -- he seemed genuinely surprised by it and he didn't want to cross any lines. "I'll stay up with you," he said.

Sherlock slid one of his arms over to touch John. "Don't let me die, John. I only talked you into this crazy bank heist, so I could have the money to buy you that mansion you always wanted . . . " He threw his other arm off the bed dramatically.

"And I came along for the thrill -- I'm addicted. I won't let you die. We have several more banks to hit up before the end. Stay with me," John said, shaking him dramatically. "Stay with me!"

Sherlock turned his head to look at John. "John, you never shake a concussion victim, you fool," he pulled John down towards him, wrapping an arm around his back.

John grinned and settled comfortably against him. "I lied about being a doctor to impress you," he said. "I just really wanted to rob that bank, and I knew you wouldn't take me without a skill."

"Jesus, John, if I had known that, I'd have been more careful. We've got to be honest with each other. How do I know I can trust you now? I'm lying on a pile of money and you've got a gun in your bag. One shot and it's all yours . . . I'm afraid now," Sherlock said. He found his fingers gently stroking John's arm.

"Don't be afraid -- I've seen like six medical shows. We just have to keep everything inside of your body," he said.

"Well, that changes everything, I feel more reassured now," Sherlock said smiling. They lay there for a few moments. Then Sherlock said, "John, what are we doing exactly?" He stared up at the ceiling.

"Playing a game," he said, moving so he could look up at Sherlock. He rest his chin on his hand on Sherlock's chest. "And cuddling, I suppose. And maybe you could say we're kissing a bit."

"Is this a good idea?" Sherlock said quietly. "You know, because of earlier . . . and last night . . ."

"I don't know," John admitted softly. He petted Sherlock's hair with his free hand. "I think we should risk it and see."

Sherlock went quiet again, still stroking John's arm. He decided to trust John. After a few minutes, he said, "Do you think the cops are on to us?"

John grinned. "No way. We're too smart for that."

"I hope we are," Sherlock said. "I hope we're as smart as we think we are." He shifted them slightly so they were lying face-to-face. He looked in John's eyes and then down at his mouth, and then Sherlock kissed him softly, one hand lifting to fiddle with John's hair.

John kissed him back happily, humming when he felt Sherlock's fingers in his hair. His own hand rested lightly on Sherlock's chest, sliding up to his neck slowly. 

The kiss moved from soft to deep -- Sherlock turning his head slightly and opening his mouth. His hand now held John's head. He let his tongue find John's. His body shifted slightly on the hotel bed.

When he felt Sherlock moving John moved his hand to Sherlock's side, and then down to his hip, to encourage him to keep going. He pushed his tongue out to find Sherlock's, humming softly. 

This felt good to Sherlock -- something he hadn't desired or even thought much about in a very long time. But everything about John had been different from the start. He pulled John even closer as his mouth dropped to kiss and suck on John's neck.

John tilted his head and made with a small sigh. "Good -- no sleeping now," he smiled.

"Not with this concussion," Sherlock said softly. He kept kissing John's neck, nipping the skin a little, as his hand slipped around and held John's lower back, pressing him even closer.

"I told you I could keep you up," he murmured, pressing his body flush against Sherlock's.

"I knew you could," Sherlock lifted his head and looked into John's eyes. "I knew you could, John. From the first moment I saw you, I knew you'd be the perfect partner." He heard the words coming out of his mouth and wasn't sure if he was actually still playing the game. It felt like he really meant what he was saying.

John held his gaze, his eyes a bit wide. "I . . . Sherlock . . . I feel so different with you, so good," he said quietly. "I think she knew what she was doing," he murmured.

Of course. Sherlock thought as he looked down at John's handsome face. Of course.

This is precisely what Mrs Hudson knew would happen -- what she knew Sherlock needed and maybe John, too. He smiled and leaned down to kiss John again.

John kissed him harder, pushing his hand into Sherlock's shirt to touch his skin.

"John," Sherlock said softly at the touch. He slid in own hand up under John's jumper to touch his skin.

"Let's take them off," he murmured, arching into his hand. He worked Sherlock's buttons quickly and pushed his shirt off. Without waiting for Sherlock to do the same, he leaned forward and pressed kisses all over his chest.

"John," Sherlock gasped again. He dropped his head back slightly to let John's mouth move easily over him. The kisses were soft and felt so intimate. John was right -- it would be hard to turn back from this. Sherlock hoped neither one of them would want to.

John moved so he was over Sherlock a bit, almost laying on top of him. He sucked on his nipples, biting softly as he teased his way lower to his stomach. "Is this okay?" he murmured against his skin. 

"It's better than okay, John," Sherlock said quietly. "It feels so good . . . you're making me feel so good." He lifted his hands to John's arms and gripped them. "I can't believe it . . . but you're making me feel so good."

"Did you doubt me?" John teased, unbuttoning his trousers now to keep kissing lower -- his stomach and the crests of his hips.

"No," Sherlock said, trying to pull at John's jumper. "I doubted myself. I don't . . . I don't let people . . ." 

John sat up and pulled his jumper off, coming back down to continue his trail. "I'm glad you let me," he said between kisses. He tugged at Sherlock's pants, pulling at the elastic teasingly. "May I?" he asked.

Sherlock looked down at John and smiled. "I don't think so," Sherlock said, pulling himself up and back from John. "You told me you were a doctor but it turns out you're just a robber who likes to watch television. I'm not quite sure I can trust you. Perhaps you're just trying to get me all nice and relaxed and then in one movement, I'll be handcuffed to this bed, you'll take the money and run, and I'll be the one going down for this whole crime." As he spoke, he reached down to John's trousers and began undoing his belt and trousers. "I think you'd better let me be in charge here," he added.

"If I take the money they can't charge you," John pointed out, trying to scoot away and get his face down to Sherlock's crotch again.

"Don't be naive, John," Sherlock said, twisting a bit away from him again. "Just because I don't have the cash doesn't mean I'm not guilty. At best, they'll want to use me to get to you," he said, turning and crawling over top of John. He pinned his arms above his head and lowered his face to John's. "But I won't turn against you because we're partners -- you can trust me," he bent down and kissed John's mouth hard.

John kissed him back, matching his ferocity before twisting his head away to talk again. "Then you should trust me --" he fought to get lower, still trying to get his mouth by Sherlock's cock even if he was underneath him. "- -not to run off and leave you."

Sherlock stopped John and looked at him seriously. "Are you going to run off and leave me, John Watson?"

"Never," John said, pausing in his struggle and gazing up at him.

"People do, John," Sherlock said softly. "You did -- you did already."

"I -- that was when I thought you didn't want me, Sherlock. Before I knew what we both wanted . . ." John said quietly.

"I don't want you to leave, I want the flat to be our home," Sherlock said, lying down next to John.

"It will be our home," he nodded. He turned to face Sherlock. "It will. Now let's go back to playing -- don't be sad."

Sherlock turned on his side. "I am sad . . .I'm sad for that guard you had to shoot. He'll be in hospital for while, but I'm glad you didn't kill him," he said, smiling a little before pushing John back against the bed and crawling on top of him. "Let's get these clothes off so I can see what weapons you have hidden upon your person." He started to pull off John's trousers.

John grinned and couldn't help laughing. "I have hidden them very well," he said.

"Lift up," Sherlock said, finishing the job and then stripping himself of his own clothes. They were now naked. Sherlock rolled onto his side and pulled John towards him again. He wrapped his arms around John and kissed his mouth again, soft and slow at first and then harder, more passionately.

John moaned and kissed his back, wrapping his arms around his neck. "You stopped me from exploring and now you're not even looking," he murmured.

"I'm kissing right now, John," Sherlock said. "If you're going to start coming on cases with me, you're going to have to be a bit more patient with my methods." He slipped a hand down to John's hip before moving across to softly hold his cock.

"But I want to keep exploring," John whined.

"You've rented this room for twenty four hours, John Watson," Sherlock said, grinning as he began a slow stroke on John. "We've got plenty of time for everything you want to do."

John pouted playfully and arched into his hand lightly. He reached down to grab Sherlock, matching his slow stroke.

"There you go," Sherlock said, "coming around to my methods . . ." He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "That feels good," he said quietly.

John smiled and pecked his mouth, swiping his thumb over the tip as he worked him slowly. "It does," he nodded.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John. "It's been quite some time for me, John," he said honestly. "I'm afraid that means we're going to have to take frequent breaks." He smiled a little and added, "It's a bit embarrassing but if we're going to be honest with each other . . . I'd have to say that I kind of feel like I could come just from what you're doing right now." He pulled his hips back a little, out of John's grasp. "But I don't want to yet. I want to talk for a minute . . . and I also kind of want to torture you."

John groaned playfully and sighed in resignation. "But I stole all of this money for you," he said, smiling softly. He didn't mind that Sherlock was close already -- he liked being the cause of it.

"You were just the muscles -- don't take full credit," Sherlock laughed. He looked over at John. "Have you had sex with anyone since you've been home from the army? A yes or no answer is sufficient, I don't need details," he said.

"No," John shook his head. "Do we have to talk about this now?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Are you thinking about having sex with me?"

John nodded. "I would really like that," he said.

"I've not had sex in quite some time, John," Sherlock admitted, "plus with this concussion . . . I'm worried I've forgotten how to do it." He looked over and smiled. "However, I do kind of remember one thing about it -- that supplies are beneficial. Do we need to use some of our hard-earned treasure to get those supplies?"

John had forgotten about that little fact. "I don't have anything here at all," he admitted. "If we are going to do it here we will need to buy stuff but Sherlock, they will recognise us! We're wanted men!"

"True," Sherlock said, "so we'll have to be careful." He leaned in and kissed John. "I want to have sex with you, John. I don't want to wait."

"I don't want to wait either," John said, turning to face him. "We can use other things -- saliva or precome." He met Sherlock's gaze and bit his lip.

"Nice try, Doctor," Sherlock said. "I appreciate your use of the technical terminology to impress me, but we need condoms as well." He pinched John's backside and said, "Stop being such a baby. We're going out -- please limit your production of 'saliva and precome,'" he made air quotes, "and we'll go out. And then when we get back, I am going to give you a right good fucking." He laughed aloud at himself.

John laughed and shoved his arm. "How do you expect me to go out after getting me all worked up like this?"

"Well, I reckon we've got two options. We can lie here quietly for a few minutes and you can think of the least sexy things imaginable until your body is a little less . . . ready," Sherlock said, stroking John's cock softly. "Or you could give yourself a little release in advance of our secret mission." His grip became harder and faster. "For which do you vote?"

"Release . . . we can start again," John said, gripping Sherlock harder and following his rhythm.

Sherlock crashed his mouth against John, hungrily kissing him. "Don't stop," he hissed, letting his hips rock into John's hand as he kept his own hand moving on John's cock. He could already feel his skin beginning to warm and his body beginning to tense. "Is this all right? Is this good -- tell me what you want me to do."

"Hard . . . harder," John panted. "It's good . . . so good." Heat was building and pooling in his groin. "Almost -- so close."

Sherlock tried to tighten his grip despite the intensity growing in his own body. He sucked hard on John's neck, almost biting the skin as he pulled it into his mouth. He bucked hard into John's hand. "John, please I can't -- I need to come," Sherlock said just as he fell over the edge and felt himself release. "Fuck," he moaned softly, his heart pounding hard in his chest. He did his best to keep his hand moving.

John had never seen or heard anything so perfect. He came without a warning, moaning and calling for Sherlock as he rolled into his hand. Each exhale carried a small moan as he tried to get himself under control again.

Sherlock dropped his hand and reached out for John's hand despite both of them being wet with come. He squeezed it as he turned and looked at John. "Thank you for sharing that with me, John," Sherlock said. "I trust you now. We're . . . safe together."

John leaned in and kissed him lightly. "Thank you," he murmured. "You were . . . it was so good, Sherlock." New, stronger feelings were blossoming in his chest and he knew this was more serious than a one night thing. He was glad they had talked and worked everything out before this. 

"Let's rest here a bit more before we go out -- unless you've changed your mind. If you have, that's okay," Sherlock said, "but I don't want this to be the end."

"I haven't changed my mind," John said. "I just need a little bit of time. God, I want to do everything with you . . ."

Sherlock laughed. "You filthy little perv," he said, wiping his wet hand right across John's belly. "You should see the look on your face right now. I'm beginning to wonder if I should be worried you're still being sneaky . . . perhaps your long term plan is to sex me to death so you can keep all of the money." He sat up and grabbed his t-shirt, wiping off John's stomach and then their hands.

"But what a fun way to go," John grinned. "Stop unraveling my plans before I can execute them!"

Sherlock smiled and leaned to kiss John's face. Then he snuggled down against him, before realising that he was a bit chilly. "Let's get under the covers while we rest," Sherlock said, lifting the blankets. He curled himself around John and closed his eyes. "This is good," he said quietly.

John gasped softly as he got under the covers. "Sherlock, don't be alarmed -- but I think we've been robbed," he smiled.

"Hmm . . ." Sherlock said, squeezing against John. "I'm not falling for that -- you've hidden it somewhere. I'm not worried. Soon you'll be so charmed, you'll share all your secrets with me." He let his hand move softly over John's chest. "Close your eyes now," he said, "we need to take a nap."

John smiled and closed his eyes, settling comfortably with Sherlock. He draped an arm over him and sighed softly. "Whatever you say, Sherlock," he murmured, already half gone.


	11. In Sherlock's Room

Sherlock slept lightly next to John, opening his eyes quickly with each shift on the bed or noise in the unfamiliar place. Eventually he realised he was properly awake. He whispered to John, "Should I go to the shop? Do you want to come with me?"

John woke up but just barely, shaking his head before falling asleep again. He wouldn't be long and John felt like he needed to catch up since the night before was so bad.

Sherlock slipped out of bed and redressed -- all except his t-shirt which he left bundled in a wrinkled mess on the floor. He walked down to the shop on the corner and got what they needed but then he looked around, wondering if he should bring snacks and a drink. Were they going to stay at the hotel? Somehow it didn't seem quite as necessary anymore.

_Do you want me to bring something to eat? SH_

When the door closed behind Sherlock, John stirred and sat up, for a second forgetting what had happened. When he realised it was the middle of the day, everything came to him. He looked over at the empty side of the bed and wished he hadn't been so tired.

He gathered his things and went to find his phone, smiling at the message.

_Yes please, but bring it home. -JW_

John left the room and went to pay for it, getting a cab back to their flat. Remembering what they were going to be doing, he wanted to be back at Baker Street. At home.

Sherlock smiled at the text. Home. That sounded nice. He headed back to the flat, nipping into the Chinese When he got back, he smiled again when he saw John. "Did you donate our steal to charity then?" he said as he moved to the kitchen to get the plates and silverware.

"Of course -- what sort of criminal do you think I am?" John smiled.

"I suppose I'm still trying to figure that out," Sherlock admitted, bringing food over to John. He sat down on his chair with his own. "Are you home for good now or do you plan on going back and sleeping at your little hideaway?"

"I am home for good. I really hope you won't keep bringing up the fact that I went there. I feel bad about it, but I didn't know what was going to happen here," John said.

"I won't," Sherlock said. "But I don't think we should pretend that none of that happened. I feel bad about the choices I made, John. I was just . . . alarmed but what was in my head. It's not an excuse . . . it's just true."

John nodded. "We can just move past it now. We both did things that we regret, but it's all done now," he said.

"All right," Sherlock said. He took a few bites of food. "I, um, got the other things we needed. I was thinking that perhaps after we eat, we could give them a go. What do you think -- we will have rested, refueled . . . seems silly not to get straight to it, don't you think?" he asked, smiling despite feeling a little awkward.

"Oh yeah . . . yes," John nodded, digging into his food. "Let's not plan it like that. We both know we want to -- let's just be normal, okay?"

"All right then," Sherlock said. "I suppose I wasn't trying to make a plan -- just let you know that I was quite keen." He smiled over at him.

John grinned. "Well, I am too, of course," he said.

"Good," Sherlock smiled. "And . . . well, I am not confident when it comes to emotions, John, and I confess I think that whatever we might do later will involve emotions.. This makes me a little . . . I don't know, I suppose I just wanted to call attention to the fact that my behaviour is generally motivated by logic. I'm not sure that's the case this time so I hope I do not . . . let you down."

"I'm sure it will be okay. We just have to communicate and be honest, okay? You'll be fine. We both will be," he smiled.

"I know, I know . . ." Sherlock said. "But . . . just don't call Mycroft if you don't find the experience satisfactory, all right?" He smiled a little at John. He couldn't help being a bit anxious about their getting closer. At the hotel, it was easier because it was like it was pretend. But Sherlock didn't want it to be pretend -- he wanted it to be real -- but that . . . that was so much scarier. More exciting, true, but also scarier.

"Come on," John said, tugging Sherlock's hand. "Let's not worry about things that might happen. Let's go focus on things we know will happen. Come and growl at me again while I threaten to leave with all the money I already gave away," John grinned.

Sherlock took John's hand and, after grabbing the bag from his coat pocket, followed him.

John led them to Sherlock's room -- technically it was closer, but also he was curious about it. He was surprised to see it was very ordinary, and he realised he didn't know what he'd been expecting. After shutting the door, he turned and kissed Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his neck.

Sherlock tossed the bag onto the bed and slipped his arms around John's waist. He kissed John back, remembering what had happened at the hotel. He hummed lightly, moving from John's mouth to his neck. "I like the way you smell," he said softly.

John smiled as he tilted his head a bit. "Do I smell of the adrenaline of pulling off the perfect heist?"

"No," Sherlock said, inhaling deeply. "You smell unusually familiar -- like soap and tea and kindness and my kissing." He kissed his neck again. "I like it." He took a few steps, leading John backwards to the bed. He pressed into them so they fell together.

John pulled his legs apart so Sherlock could settle nicely between them before leaning up to kiss his mouth hard. He wanted everything to taste like Sherlock and he wanted to leave his own trace all over Sherlock as well. He arched up into him, unable to get close enough.  

Sherlock started to pull at John's jumper, trying to lift it over his head. When he struggled to get it off, he left that task to John and instead arched up so he could remove his own shirt. He suddenly wanted to be completely naked again with John -- to have nothing between them, to allow them be skin-to-skin. "Everything," he mumbled, unbuttoning John's jeans and pulling on them before sliding onto his side to wiggle out of his own.

John pulled his jumper off with a small huff of laughter, pushing his pants away as Sherlock removed his own clothes. "Can I explore again? Please?" he asked, tossing his clothes from the bed and getting onto his knees to hover over Sherlock again. When he looked up John even put his hands together, like he was begging, grinning stupidly.

"I suppose so," Sherlock said, as if he were giving in to a ridiculous demand. "If you insist . . ." he added, before flopping back with his arms open wide in surrender.

John chuckled and climbed on top of him, pressing his mouth to the top of his stomach and continuing from there as if he had never stopped. His hand went ahead, stroking Sherlock slowly as he approached with his lips.

"I want this because I like you, you know," Sherlock whispered, looking up at the ceiling while concentrating on the feel of John's touches on his body. "It's not what I said before -- I think you're interesting. And good."

John paused and looked up at him. "I didn't really believe what you said anyway," he smiled softly. He kissed Sherlock's belly before heading down to his hips again, kissing around the curves and moving to his groin.

"I will feel sorry for you tomorrow though," Sherlock said, lifting his head and smiling down at John. "You'll be hobbling around so much, you might need to use your cane again. Don't forget -- it's been a long time for me -- I have a feeling my appetite will be quite voracious. I hope you're up to it."

John grinned and sucked his skin a bit to leave a mark. "I look forward to it," he murmured. He came up and sucked Sherlock's cock into his mouth, bobbing up and down.

"Fuck, John, that feels good," Sherlock said. He let his hands drift down to touch John's shoulders, but he couldn't reach them so he let one rest gently in John's hair. He let out a small moan at the feeling of his cock in the wet softness of John's mouth.

John shifted to take him deeper, swallowing and humming around him. He glanced up and rubbed Sherlock's thighs, hollowing his cheeks a bit. He wanted to drive Sherlock crazy -- as crazy as he was planning on making John. 

Already Sherlock's hips wanted to begin rocking, but he tried to relax his body. He took a few deep breaths and pressed his head against the pillow. "John, that's . . . good," he said again, as if his entire vocabulary was limited to those few words. He tangled his fingers in John's hair, gripping lightly.

John hummed his acknowledgement, focusing on taking long pulls, sweeping his tongue over the tip, and swallowing him down again.

"John," Sherlock said, "I think I need a little break from that -- it's too good and I don't want this to be quick. Will you lie down beside me for a moment?" He tried to focus on his breathing.

John pulled off and planted one more kiss on his hip before crawling up to lay beside him. He was smiling, resting his hand on Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock turned towards John and kissed his mouth and then his neck. "You've made me feel so good, John," Sherlock said. "I want you to feel good, too." He slid a hand down John's chest and wrapped his fingers around John's cock. He started a slow stroke, but at the moment he was concentrating more on using his mouth to take in the smell and taste of John's skin.

"You do," he murmured. "That especially . . . your mouth on my neck is good. And your hand, of course . . ." He rolled his hips slowly, wanting to enjoy every second.

"Good," Sherlock said, trailing his tongue down John's neck to his chest. He licked across John's collarbone and then dropped to take one of his nipples into his mouth -- first nuzzling it with his lips and then sucking it in gently between his teeth. His hand kept moving on John's cock, curving over his tip, which was now wet, before moving back up and down its length. 

John arched his body into Sherlock's mouth, the light touched feeling like so little. "Can't get enough," he murmured, trying to push into his hand and mouth at the same time.

"I can't touch you enough," Sherlock breathed against John's skin. "I want my hands, my mouth to touch you everywhere. Every inch of your body I want to touch and taste."

John moaned softly. "I want it all to be you, Sherlock." He reached down to touch his shoulders and his hair.

Sherlock moved his body down the bed, kissing a line from the center of John's chest to his belly. Then he scooted down just a bit more and put kisses on John's cock before licking it up and down, making it wet. He held it his hand again and stroked as he swirled his tongue over the tip. He moved slowly and deliberately, enjoying every moment.

John lifted himself up to watch, almost calling him a tease. He loved every second of it though, savouring every little thing Sherlock did to him.

"Do you like watching me?" Sherlock asked, glancing up at John.

"I do -- you're so sexy," John said, reaching down to pet his hair.

"Is there something specific you'd like to see me do?" Sherlock asked, dropping one hand to hold John's balls and he continued to use his mouth and other hand on John's cock.

"Take -- can you take me deeper? Like I did before?" he asked shyly, biting his lips. The hot wetness of his mouth was incredible and he wanted more of it, wanted to lose himself in it.

Without answering, Sherlock slowly swallowed John down, taking him as far into his throat as he could before his gag reflex kicked in. He pulled back up quickly before swallowing again. He moved this into a rhythm -- a slow swallow, feeling John filling his throat, followed by a quick movement up and breath of air. His hand between John's legs caressed everywhere -- his balls, his inner thighs, even brushing lightly against John's opening. 

"Fuck . . .Sherlock," John moaned, falling back against the bed again. It was so hot he almost came then, taking deep breaths to calm down.

Sherlock slipped John from his mouth and moved back up the bed to curl into him. "Let's both calm ourselves for a moment," he said, sliding his arms around him. He put his mouth to John's ear and whispered, "I loved every moment of that. I loved your taste and your sounds. You're so sexy, John." He licked the contours of John's ear before sucking on the lobe.

"That's . . . fuck . . . that's not helping, Sherlock," John murmured, trying to take slow breaths.

"I'm just being honest, John," Sherlock purred into his ear. "I'm just letting you how very much I'd like to fuck you. That's all, I'm doing." He kissed from John's ear down his neck and then looked at him, smiling cheekily. "Calmer now?"

John shivered at his words and shook his head. "You're an awful tease," he murmured, turning to face him. "I don't sit here and tell you how much I want to be fucked . . . how I want to feel your cock pushing into me . . . how sexy you are..." 

"Go on," Sherlock said, teasing him. "To be honest, I was wondering why you weren't already telling me." He squeezed John to him.

John playfully tried to get away. "Hmm. I don't appreciate this. I think I'll finish alone," he teased.

Sherlock pushed John onto his back and rolled on top of him. "John, just as you like to watch what is happening, perhaps I like to _hear_ ," he said, dropping his head to kiss John's chest. "Why don't you tell me what you'd like me to do and I'll do it?"

"I want you to fuck me, Sherlock. Push my legs back, use those long, slender fingers to open me up, and then fuck me. Please?" He smiled, petting Sherlock's hair. "I'm aching . . . please give me your cock."

"All you had to do was say," Sherlock said, smiling devilishly. He reached for the bag and retrieved the lube, pouring some into his hands. He separated John's legs and ran his hand slowly up the inside of John's thighs, before sliding it between his legs, stroking and slicking the area. He let his fingertips brush John's hole and then hover there. Then he leaned over John to kiss his mouth and he slowly slipped one inside.

John hummed into his mouth, kissing him back deeply. "Is that what's supposed to make me need the cane?" He teased softly, smirking up at Sherlock.

"John Watson, you little minx," Sherlock said, crashing into his mouth. He bit John's bottom lip and pulled back, and as he did he slipped in a second finger. "You feel good," he mumbled as he moved to suck on John's neck. He used his knees to push John's legs further apart. "Does it feel good?"

John huffed breathlessly when the kiss ended, nodding and burying his lip at the second finger. "Yes, it feels fantastic," he murmured. "You feel fantastic -- I want more . . . please."

Sherlock slid in another finger, now pumping and occasionally curling them. He covered John's chest with kisses until he couldn't take any more anticipation. He brought one of John's hands down to stroke himself and then pulled John's body near to the edge of the bed. He slid a few pillows under John's head. After rolling on a condom, he slicked himself and John. Standing between John's legs, he lifted them and then lined himself up to press in. The feeling of pressure around him was incredible. "Fuck," he exhaled as he continued to move inside. Once he was fully in, he looked up at John. "You look . . . feel so good," he said, "you okay?"

John pulled his legs back a bit more and nodded, breathing to get used to something so much bigger. But he was properly worked up from before and he needed it. "I'm okay -- move . . . please."

"Keep your hand moving," Sherlock instructed. "I want to see you." He started rocking his hips, slowly at first but pushing all the way in. It wasn't long before the pace sped up. His hands gripped John's legs and he thrust into him. "Fuck," he moaned softly. It felt so good.

John continued his stroke, but he kept it slow and light because he wanted this to last -- he wanted to feel this. His body rocked with Sherlock's and eventually his hand was matching the rhythm, whimpers and moans escaping with every movement.

Sherlock pushed John's legs out of the way and leaned over him, kissing his mouth. His rhythm changed slightly but he just wanted to kiss John, to be near his face, his eyes -- to see him during this moment. He raised his body slightly from John's and then braced it with his arms on either side of him, so he could return to thrusting hard into him.

John kissed him back a bit desperately, and when he pulled away he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck to keep some contact. He kept his eyes open, holding Sherlock's gaze as they moved. He stroked himself faster, panting heavily. "Close . . . I'm close . . . " he groaned.

"Me too," Sherlock panted. "You first . . . I want to feel it." His hands gripped the bed sheets tightly as he continued moving into John.

John closed his eyes and focused on everything happening to him. Being filled over and over by Sherlock, his panting breaths ghosting on John's face and neck -- he opened his eyes to watch him again and came hard, shouting out for Sherlock as he squeezed around him. 

Sherlock felt John's body tense, heard his name coming out of John's mouth, felt a wet spray across his abdomen. He squeezed his eyes shut and surrendered, his orgasm shaking his whole body as he pushed one last time into John. He shuddered and then gasped for air, as if he had forgotten how to breathe. He dropped his body against John's and raised one hand to hold John's head.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock tightly, breathing with him and holding him close as he murmured into his ear. "You're okay. . . so beautiful, Sherlock. It's okay . . .I've got you." His whole body felt like jelly, melting into the bed as he came down from the wonderful high.  

"Don't change your mind about staying," Sherlock said, without even thinking. "She wanted us to be together." He tried to focus on his breath and then lifted his head to look at John.

"I won't leave," John assured him, petting his hair. "I'm not going anywhere." 

"Good," Sherlock said softly, dropping his head to rest against John's shoulder. He wiggled a little and then sat up to take off the condom. He quickly snuggled into John again. "This, um," he said, "is my room, by the way."

John chuckled softly and held him close. "Yes, I see. It's quite nice," he commented. 

"Maybe you could sleep in here some time . . . if you want to, but not every night. I mean, don't feel like you have to," Sherlock stumbled over his words, realising that perhaps he might be better off not speaking at the moment.

"I think that would be nice," John said, looking over at him. "Would you like that?"

"I think so," Sherlock said, "but I don't know . . . I've never had something like that really and perhaps its current appeal may have more to do with the fact that we're naked and spent at the moment."

John hesitated for a moment. "Is this just a sex thing for you? I mean, if you want to keep this so casual that I go to my own bed after?"

Sherlock lifted his head and looked at John. "Of course it's not, John. Of course not. That's stupid actually. If I was just interested in orgasm, no offense, but I can sort that myself. Of course it's not that," he repeated before he noticed that he had now said it three times. "And I think it's too late to pretend this is casual . . . not after what happened last night." He lay back down and turned his head away slightly. "It's just -- I don't know how to be . . . something to another person." He knew that sentence didn't really make his point clear. "I just don't know how to have this and have the normal, everyday stuff that it seemed like we had before all the bad stuff happened."

"Well, no one really knows how to do these things, do they? We just figure it out as we go. As long as we are honest and we talk to each other, we will be okay," John said. He touched his cheek, willing Sherlock to look at him. "I like you so much, Sherlock." That sounded lame coming out, but he didn't want to pile on to the already drastic changes.

Sherlock looked up at John. "I like you, too," Sherlock said. "I do." He smiled a little and touched John's hand. "It's just . . . I know how to treat people I dislike, because I dislike most people. And I know how to do this," he said, dipping his head towards their naked bodies, "but I don't know how to just do the normal things with people I like." He squeezed John's hand. "But I'll try."

"Just be yourself, okay? That's what I like -- you."

Sherlock thought about the things that John had said in anger to him, just in the few days they'd known each other. But it didn't feel like the right time to say that. So instead he just repeated, "I'll try." He closed his eyes. "Let's stop talking now. Let's rest for a little bit and then we'll get up and do. . . whatever we decide to do."

"Okay. Come lay here with me," John said, opening his arms for Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled John so they were lying properly on the bed and then rested his head on the pillow next to him. He snuggled into his arms. "We keep ending up naked together," Sherlock said softly. "If you come on cases with me, you'll have to guarantee that you'll keep your clothes at the crime scene, all right?" He smiled and fussed John's hair.

"I'll try my best, but I won't promise anything," John grinned.

Sherlock fiddled with John's hair for a few more minutes and then realised he was yawning. He let his eyes close and his breathing settle as his mind started to clear. Soon he was asleep.

John smiled as Sherlock fell asleep against him. He watched him for a bit, petting his hair until he fell asleep as well.


	12. Sherlock's Second Mistake

When Sherlock woke up, he wasn't confused about why he and John were naked in his bed. He remembered and didn't regret anything. He looked towards the window and could see that the sun was fading. He blew softly on John's face. "John Watson," he whispered, "you need to wake up."

John wrinkled his nose and shifted a bit. "Hmm?" He murmured, waking up slowly.

"I'm hungry -- it's evening. Wake up now," Sherlock said, giving him a little kiss on the head.

"What do you want? Let's order in," John said, rubbing his face to wake up properly. 

"I don't care -- what do you want?" Sherlock asked.

"Chinese, I think. That sounds good?" John asked, turning to face him now.

"We just had Chinese. Pick something else," Sherlock said, sitting up a bit and leaning against the headboard.

"Um . . . Italian? Pizza? Thai?" John turned more onto his side and pet touched Sherlock's thigh. "I can make breakfast for dinner if you want. I'm not picky."

"Just pick," Sherlock said, standing up from the bed. "I told you on the first day, I'm not that interested in food. Get what you want." He slipped his pajamas on and looked over at John. "However, what I do need is tea. I'll put the kettle on."

John watched him leave the room and sighed softly. The cuddling had been nice. As his stomach growled softly he got up and threw on Sherlock's dressing gown, not eager to get into his jeans again. "Let's order some pizza," he said as he came into the kitchen. He went to find his phone to look up a place nearby. 

"I don't like pizza," Sherlock said. "Can we get Thai instead?" He poured the water into the mugs and moved to the fridge to get the milk. He saw the head. "Right -- I forgot about him. I'll take care of that at some point," he said.

John winced and fixed his eyes on his phone. "Sure, I'll find Thai instead," he said, changing his search accordingly.  

Sherlock carried the tea over to the sofa and set John's down on the table. He looked around the room. "I wish you'd bring some more things in, John. I want you to feel like this your place, too." He took a sip of his tea even though it was a bit too hot.

"Sherlock, this is all of my things. I told you already that I didn't have much," he said. "What do you usually get for Thai?"

"Something with peanut sauce, please," Sherlock said. He stood back up and went over to his desk and opened his laptop.

John called the restaurant and placed the order, asking for delivery before turning to face Sherlock. "Are you going to be working?"

Sherlock looked at his blog first -- there were a few more comments and he looked up to tell John, but saw that he was ordering the food, so clicked next on his email and saw one from Lestrade. He read it carefully and replied that he'd look into it, but his mind was already working -- thinking, analysing. Then he looked up at John and said, "Sorry . . . what did you say? I'm working."

"That's what I asked," John said. He moved into the sitting room and went to his jacket to find money for the delivery guy when he came. Then he found his book and sat on the sofa to wait, reading. 

Sherlock watched John. "My wallet in my trousers in my room -- go get some cash if you need it. I don't mind," he said smiling lightly. He turned back to his computer.

"It's fine, I have money here already. You can get it next time," he said. He glanced over at Sherlock and then turned to look at him properly. Maybe he was overreacting. He just wanted to spend this time together. They had just had sex for crying out loud. And now this? He went back to his book, trying to forget it. 

Sherlock took some notes and made a plan in his head. When he heard the knock at the door, he stood up and said, "I'll get plates." While John was retrieving the food, Sherlock brought plates and silverware and two glasses of water into the sitting room and set them all on the table. He sat down on the sofa to wait.

John paid and came up with the bag, putting it on the coffee table and sitting beside Sherlock. "That one is yours," he said, passing him the box before reaching into the bag for his own. 

"Thanks for getting this," Sherlock said. He added, "I've got a case." 

"Yeah? What's it about?" John asked, digging into his meal. 

"Murder, obviously. Maybe you could come with me tomorrow? I'm going to go look at the body," Sherlock said.

"Okay, yeah," John smiled, looking over at him. "I'll have to take notes so I can remember everything when I type it up."

Sherlock went back to eating. He felt a little odd. Was this normal -- were things okay between them? He pushed that out of his head. "We'll go in the morning, yeah?"

"Sure. Should I set an alarm or anything?" John asked, finishing up his meal. He leaned back against the sofa and sipped at his water.

"Yeah," Sherlock set his plate on the table. "Can I ask you a question, John?"

"Sure," John said, turning his head to look over at him properly again.

"When I was working earlier, there was something wrong with your face. I think it might have had something to do with me. Am I correct?"

"Something wrong with my face?" John repeated, raising his brows. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, whatever you were thinking about made you displeased. And I think it had to do with me," Sherlock said, staring ahead into the distance.

John watched him for a moment, his own words about honesty ringing in his head. "I thought it was odd that after what happened you wanted to go right to working. I realise that's a bit clingy and you can do whatever you like -- I don't want to control you -- but I thought we might do something together for the night."

"But we just ate --- wasn't that together?" Sherlock asked, a bit puzzled.

"I meant when you were working -- you didn't even hear me speaking to you when you got on the computer," John said. It seemed silly to admit that out loud, and now he wished he hadn't brought it up at all.

Sherlock thought back and, of course, John was right. But wasn't that what they were supposed to be doing -- just being normal? Did he get it wrong again already? "I see," Sherlock said. But he couldn't think of what to say next.

"I just thought we could have cuddled or something. It doesn't matter," he insisted, trying to make light of it.

Sherlock wanted to cuddle John now. That sounded nice. It was nice earlier when they had cuddled after sex. They had cuddled and napped. And then they got up and Sherlock thought they were supposed to be acting normal so he checked his email, as he'd normally do. He thought he was doing the right thing. But therein lay the problem: Sherlock couldn't trust himself to know what was the right thing to do.

"I think I need the bathroom," Sherlock said and got up. Once he'd shut the door, he looked at himself in the mirror. Sherlock knew how to do the sex part. He even knew, usually, how to do the seduction part. But this -- this part -- he did not know how to do. He had promised John that he would try and John said they'd be okay. And already -- even though he _had_ tried -- they weren't okay. It had been written all over John's face earlier, and now it was written all over his own.

He splashed some water on his cheeks and slipped into his bedroom. He put some clothes on and emerged. "I think I might go for a walk," he said to John, hurrying to put on his coat.

"What? Now?" John asked, standing up quickly. Sherlock was moving fast -- no time for him to go and change. He wanted to be alone. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said, even though he knew it was a lie. "Don't call Mycroft -- nothing's wrong. I just want some fresh air. Everything's fine. Nothing's wrong. I'll come back." And then he slid out the door.

On the street, he took a deep breath and reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. He lit one, but instead of walking, he headed over to the shuttered shop a few doors down. He stood, leaning against the doorway and smoked his cigarette. This was the second night in a row he had done this. Two nights out of four since moving into the flat. He couldn't keep doing this. 

John watched him go, feeling a bit helpless. He put the uneaten food away and then washed up their plates before going back to Sherlock's room. He ditched the robe and climbed back into bed, thinking about what might had happened.  He should have never said anything about the cuddling -- who cared if he checked his email? It probably would have just been a second.

While waiting for Sherlock John drifted off into a light sleep again.

Sherlock took out his phone.

_I tried to be normal. But I got it wrong. I'm sorry. SH_

He sent it but he realised he wasn't done.

_I told you I'm not good at responsibility. I told you. SH_

But that wasn't how he wanted it to end.

_I'm sorry. I'm coming back now. I'll talk to you in the morning. SH_

He smoked one more cigarette and then made his way back up to the flat.

The repeated buzzing on his phone woke John up again and he reached over for it a bit clumsily. When he read the messages, he shook his head and put his phone down again. He didn't understand what had gone wrong. He turned onto his side and closed his eyes again, trying to think about what might have happened. Was it his saying something about the cuddling? He said it was fine -- he'd just been over reacting. Is that what had upset Sherlock? He'd have to wait and see. He pretended to be asleep.

Sherlock climbed the stairs of the flat and opened the door quietly. He didn't hear any noise as he hung up his coat. He glanced up at John's room which was dark and silent. He was glad John had gone to bed: Sherlock had said his peace and if John wanted to talk more about it, they could do it in the morning. He walked into his own room and saw John sleeping in his bed. His stomach dropped. What was John doing? 

Sherlock tried to think fast: wake him up or leave him sleep? Get in bed or move to the sofa? Talk or not talk? He didn't want to make any of those decisions, but knew he could not just stand there for much longer without having to choose. So he walked to the bed, slipped off his shoes and got in. 

John shifted when he felt the bed move. He rolled into his back, blinking his eyes open. "Sherlock?" he mumbled.

"Why are you in my bed?" Sherlock asked.

"Why wouldn't I be?" John asked quietly.

"Because of what I did . . . or didn't do," Sherlock said. "Because I've already got it all wrong."

John turned onto his side and opened his eyes properly now. "What did you get wrong?"

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling. He wished this conversation didn't have to happen but knew it did. "When we got up, I thought we were just supposed to be normal. So I tried to be normal. But you wanted something else and I didn't even notice. I told you I didn't know how to just be . . . normal with people I liked. Within fifteen minutes, I already got it wrong."

"Sherlock, it wasn't wrong -- if anything I'm to blame more than you because I didn't say anything. I just expected you to read my mind and that's not right either."

"Don't act like that, don't act like it's not a big deal," Sherlock said. "I _know_ I'm bad at this -- I tried to tell you -- don't pretend I'm not."

"Sherlock, you're over reacting," he murmured. "I could have asked you to cuddle with me. I didn't. I wasn't even upset about it -- not really. I promise it's okay. Little things like that are okay." John reached out to touch his hand, wishing he could make him understand.

"John," Sherlock said, not moving at all, not even to pull away, "little things . . . they're not okay with me."

John didn't know what to say, how to make him understand. "So . . . I mean, what do you want? Do you want me to go to my room? To end this because of one silly misunderstanding?"

"You'll end it eventually," Sherlock said softly. "Soon, a silly misunderstanding everyday will be too much . . . soon you'll just get tired of my misunderstanding everything that happens outside of the bedroom."

"Don't tell me what I will and won't do, Sherlock. I don't mind being patient -- you said you don't understand these things and I am willing to help you learn them. I don't want to give up." He stroked Sherlock's hand softly, glad Sherlock hadn't pulled away from him.

Sherlock didn't know what other words to say. So he didn't say anything for a few minutes. And then he turned and curled against John, sliding his arms around him and pressing his face against John's chest.


	13. In Every Room In The Flat

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him tightly, petting his hair. "Don't be upset, love."

"I just want to . . . I just want everything to be right all the time," Sherlock said into John's chest. "It's hard and exhausting having to think all the time about what is right. I just want it to _be_ right."

"It is, love. I don't want you to worry so much. I'm not that scary, am I?" he teased, kissing the top of his head. 

" _You're_ not," Sherlock said, "but _I_ am sometimes . . ."

"You are not," John assured him.

"I scared you last night," Sherlock said. It wasn't that he wanted to make things work -- he just wanted John to know what he was in for if they kept this up.

"You confused me. That's different," John murmured.

"Whatever -- the words don't matter because whether I scared or confused you, I messed it up, didn't I?"

"No, Sherlock. Messing it up means we can't go on anymore. We're bound to hit little snags like that but you can't just give up," John explained.

"I don't want to give up, John," Sherlock said. He squeezed John even more tightly.

"Okay," John said, holding him tighter. "It's okay now. We just have to talk to each other -- it's okay. Nothing is ruined, love."

"Promise," Sherlock said. "Promise you'll just tell me when I get it wrong. Don't change your face -- just tell me. Promise . . . please."

"I will promise to communicate with you and to be honest, but I can't promise about my face because sometimes I don't even realise what it's doing. Like today. I don't even know what you saw, but I didn't mean to do anything. You have to tell me when my face is being weird," he said, smiling softly. 

"Gladly," Sherlock said. He lifted his head and lined his face up with John's. "It's not weird now," he said softly, trying to make a smile. "It's pretty now." He lifted his hands to John's head and petted his hair.

John crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. It was a silly thing to do, but he just wanted to make things better -- wanted Sherlock to feel better. 

"Oh god, it's gone weird," Sherlock said, "does that mean I've done something wrong again?" He smiled at John's face -- he wanted to kiss it but didn't know if he should.

John straightened himself and smiled. "What happened? How was it weird?" he asked. 

"Your eyes went googly," Sherlock said. "When your eyes go googly, does that mean you want to be kissed? Is that a warning sign I should look out for?" He moved his mouth near John's cheek but didn't touch it.

John nodded. "You're learning already," he teased, moving to close the space between them. 

Sherlock turned John's head with his hand and kissed his mouth softly. "It's exhausting, all of that stuff," he whispered, "but this --" he kissed John again "-- is so nice."

"It doesn't have to be exhausting. We're just going to be us, okay?" He kissed Sherlock's mouth, and then again a bit harder.

"I want . . ." Sherlock said, but instead of finishing, he just took John's kiss, kissing back, and pressing himself even closer.

John hummed softly and brought his hand behind Sherlock's head, petting his hair as they kissed. 

"I want to go to sleep with you," Sherlock said. He pulled away and rid himself of his clothes, but was too drained to get out of bed and grab his pajamas. He slid back against John and nuzzled his neck.

"So I shouldn't go to my room, then?" he teased, shifting so they could lay together comfortably.

Sherlock grabbed John's arm. "Don't go," he said, kissing his neck. "I need to sleep by you."

"I was teasing," he murmured, tilting his head. "I'm not going anywhere . . ." 

"Good," Sherlock said. "Because this is your home." Sherlock thought about the word home -- what it had meant to him and how he had told himself that when he had his own home, it wouldn't have the negative associations the word had before. But Sherlock had caused so many problems in the last few days -- why couldn't he just make a nice home with John? "This is our home, John," he whispered. "I want us both to stay."

"We will, love. This is our home," he repeated. "Now, let's get some rest, okay?"

Sherlock nodded against John's chest. He took a deep breath in, took in John's scent -- the scent that was now connected to this bed, to Sherlock's bed. He closed his eyes as he curled into John a little more.

John fell asleep soon after that, his arms still draped around Sherlock. He was glad things had worked out -- that they were able to fix everything before things got worse. 

Sherlock listened to John fall to sleep. He tried to clear his mind and relax his body until he eventually slept. But then a dream came -- he was using, trying to score. He opened a door in a seedy hotel and John was there on the bed and when he looked over to the chair, Mycroft sat there, shaking his head.

Sherlock opened his eyes. It was a dream. He wasn't in a hotel, he was in his room. This was his room in his flat, and it had nothing to do with Mycroft. He rolled over and looked at John. It had everything to do with John. Sherlock curled around to spoon him as he tried to go back to sleep.

John shifted to accommodate him, waking up for just a second before dozing off again. He slept sound and comfortable -- being so close to Sherlock was very therapeutic for his own nightmares. 

Sherlock went back to sleep against John. This time he didn't dream. He just slept.

When John woke up again the sun was properly streaming into the window. He looked over at Sherlock before slipping out of bed to use the bathroom. 

Sherlock woke to the movement. "Where are you going, John?" he said, sitting partly up before dropping back onto the pillow.

"Just a bathroom run," he said from the door. "I'll be right back," he assured him. 

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling. He made a promise to himself that today he would try to . . . just okay with things. He wouldn't focus on making everything right or perfect and he wouldn't panic if something was wrong or imperfect. He would try to be himself -- well, the version of himself that lived with and cared about another person. Because that's what was true: he lived with John and he cared about John. He felt himself smile. The thought of John made him smile.

John came back a few minutes later and sat on the edge of the bed. "Come on -- I'll make some tea," he said, patting Sherlock's leg. "You can take care of our little friend." 

Sherlock wasn't sure what John meant. Was it some kind of sex talk? But he stretched and got up, slipping on his pajamas and dressing gown and following John into the kitchen.

John started the kettle and leaned on the counter to wait for it. He looked towards the fridge and pushed Sherlock lightly towards it. "Get him," he said as if it asking him to kill a spider or something.  

Sherlock opened the fridge and saw the head. "Oh right -- him," he said. He turned to look at John. "I don't know what to do with him, to be honest. I need my lab stuff to do the experiment and it's not here yet. It really took a lot for her to get him for me but . . . if you want me to get rid of him, I will." He grabbed the milk and handed it to John. "You shouldn't have to deal with that, just because of me -- it's your home, too," he added. Sherlock had never uttered a sentence like that in his life.

"Just . . . if you have to keep him can you cover him up or wrap him up?" John asked, taking the milk from him to finish the tea. 

Sherlock looked around the kitchen and grabbed a bin bag before returning to the fridge and awkwardly shifting the head inside it. He washed his hands and leaned over to John and kissed him. "Thank you for letting me keep him," he said.

John grinned. "Just make sure you feed him and don't let him wee on the rug," he teased. 

Before Sherlock picked up his tea, he pressed himself against John. "You're so kind, John, and it appears that kindness makes me a little horny in the morning," he said, kissing John's neck.

John set his mug down and brought both hands behind Sherlock's neck, petting his hair. "I'll have to remember that," he murmured. 

"Just in the morning, though," Sherlock said, sliding one hand to the front of John's pajamas to palm his cock. "You'll have to try other things at other times of the day." He gave John a slow and long kiss on his mouth.

"I look forward to . . . learning your buttons," he murmured into the kiss, finally pressing his mouth to Sherlock's properly. He brought one hand down and was glad to feel the state Sherlock was in, thankful for the thin material of his pajamas. 

Sherlock slipped his hand into John's pajamas and gripped his hardening cock. He started a slow stroke, sometimes just stopping to hold him, as he continued to kiss John's mouth and neck. "I'm so glad we can be together," he whispered. "I'm . . . so glad."

"I am too," John breathed, trying to push into his hand for more. His own hands tugged at Sherlock's pants to drop them. "Sherlock . . I am too."

Once John undid the tie of his pajama bottoms, Sherlock wiggled and let them fall before kicking them to the side. He undid John's and pulled them down. With easier access, his stroke moved faster, and John's hand on his body increased the urge inside Sherlock as his skin started to warm.

John bucked and pulled him close. He wrapped his hand around the both of them, trying to feel more of him. "Sherlock . . . fuck," he breathed. 

"You're going to make me come right here in the kitchen, John Watson," Sherlock moaned into his ear. "Is that okay? I'm close and I want to . . . I want us to come together . . . right here in our kitchen."

John moaned at his words and nodded. "Let me see . . . show me," he murmured.

Sherlock pushed against John. He closed his eyes and thought about the movement of their bodies. He thought about John's mouth so he leaned in and kissed it and then he was coming into John's hand and calling his name through his panting.

"Fuck, Sherlock," John moaned, following soon after him. Everything mixed in his hand as he continued stroking them through their orgasms.

Sherlock kissed John's mouth and squeezed him, pressing their wet bellies together. He put a kiss on the top of John's head. "Let's do this in every room in the flat," he whispered, "not now I mean -- eventually. Okay?"

"Yes -- God yes," John laughed as Sherlock held him.

"All right then," Sherlock said, stepping back a little. "We need to get cleaned up now. We've got to get a move on. We're doing something important today." 

"What are we doing?" John asked. And then he remembered. "The case! We're looking at the body, right?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, "I'm taking you to look at a dead body -- I hope you don't think that's too terribly romantic of me." He took a sip of tea.

"I'm swooning," John teased, leaning on the counter again as he fanned himself.

"Afterwards, maybe we could go back to my parents' and get the lab stuff. That way I can get to work on him sooner rather than later," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, that sounds good. Let me shower first, though, okay?"

"We should both clean up," Sherlock said. "We should both look good -- I'd like to re-introduce you to my parents, you know . . . now that we're . . . you know." He looked up sheepishly. "I want to show you off . . . I mean, now that you've lost the cane and all." He smiled.

"Oh very funny," John chuckled. "Are you going to tell them our new status?"

"If you're sure you want this, we should tell them," Sherlock said, "they should know."

"I am sure," John smiled. "They're going to think I tricked you or something," he teased.

Sherlock walked over to John and held his arm. "No, John, if anything, they'll think I tricked you. I want them to know how I feel about you and how you feel about me. I want them to know that we're good and normal, kind of at least, but that we're good. That we've both made this choice to be together," He leaned down and put a soft kiss on John's lips. "Just like Mrs Hudson wanted us to be," he added, smiling.

John smiled and agreed, thanking Mrs Hudson over and over for the wonderful gift that was Sherlock.


End file.
